A Tale of Iron-Blood Broken Pieces of who we are
by beautylovestardust
Summary: They were inseparable once...But time can change a great many things. Some for better. Some for worse.
1. Broken Innocence of Youth

**_Part 1; Broken Innocence of Youth_**

* * *

_Chaos, leave me never._

_keep me wild_

_And keep me free_

_so that my brokenness will be,_

_the only beauty_

_the world will see._

* * *

**_Yara_**

Screams tore through wind-whipped air. Loudness. Disruption of sleep.

Pudgy brunette, rolled onto her stomach. Attempted to withstand the cries. Still—they came.

Loud—obnoxious.

Eardrum-shattering.

Finally, awakened—completely. Icy feet, met frigid stone. Padding across in quiet discontent. Small, stubby arms reached into the bassinet.

Drew the warm bundle of pink-flesh, and hard-bone into the stability of patient-arms.

Patience, was all their mother would speak. Patience; for the little, squealing bundle.

Patience. Restraint.

It took fair amounts of both not to smother the screaming little babe. Theon; it was named.

**Her,** baby brother.

They were youngest. Their brothers—much older.

Three years separated her, from him. He was teething. Swollen pink gums, were inflamed when she tilted his upper-lip, over. It was no wonder—this pink-fleshed babe, wailed.

Cooing down to the bundle. One stubby finger dipped in the dram of whiskey, propped nearby. Careful, gentle brushes of that stubby finger, grazed swollen gums.

Strained lungs, ceased screaming.

Wide green eyes, that matched green-speckled surface, of the sea-waves—met hers.

"That better, baby brother?" Piping, high-pitched words parted her lips.

Nearly four years of age—Yara felt drawn to little Theon.

His bassinet resided in her chambers. Their brothers wanted no part in the newest born. Yara carried him to her bed. Settled just on the edge.

Cuddled him; rubbed her fingers over the wool-lined blanket. Wind-blew at the stone-ledged window. Rain splattered the night in heavy droplets.

In low, breathy tones, Yara began to sing. Lullabies; in hopes that he might re-drift to sleep. So that she might sleep. Theon gave a wide smile.

Cooed in babyish tones.

She returned his smile. All whilst singing. Listening. Dreaming.

* * *

Stubby little legs, hurried after her.

Hers had grown—and Theon was still, **her** responsibility.

Youngest siblings—They were each other's problem. Yara hardened with age. Though six years was not very old—She toughened.

Her eldest brothers would roughhouse. Tackle each other. **Her**. And would pin her underneath, their forms. Take pride in **hurting** her.

Theon was different. Youthful. Looked up to her.

Chased her—but not to wound her. Rather, to **play** with her.

"You have to do better, if you want to keep up, baby brother!" High-pitched shouts came from her. Mischievous smile thrown over her shoulder.

Determination lit behind, sea-green eyes.

"I…catch…you!" Babbling, Theon pushed harder. Pumping his little arms. She finally, took pity on him.

Slowed her pace, and spun around.

Swept him up, and into her embrace.

"I caught you!" Yara teased. And Theon's eyes widened. Then he clapped.

He was slowest. Slower than most Iron-Born toddlers.

Refused to speak, before his third name day. Instead—Theon had been quiet. Giggled often, cried a lot. But refused speech.

Most thought he was a mute—or dumb. Yara knew better. When he desired to speak—He would. And he had.

Now, his speech was clumsy, however. Slow.

"I love…you...Ya—aa!" Despite his attempts, Theon could not quite pronounce her name. His 'R' sound refused to define itself.

She bit back laughter.

"I love you, too. Baby brother."

He huffed. "No…a baby…"

"Mmm, I believe you are. Those little legs-" Playful fingers tugged on his left ankle, "—just refuse to catch up to me. That makes you **my** baby, brother."

He made a face. Folded his arms, just so. Drew his eyebrows together in a pout.

"Enough of that, now." She coaxed.

Her hand dragged over his back, through his thick, sandy curls. Brushed his cheek. He made heavy little breath sounds through his mouth, in contentment. Settling for her.

Heavy boot-steps sounded off the stone-walls. Yara turned, Theon still balanced precariously on her hip. Towering over her; Maron stood. Thirteen years—and already adept at lording himself over her as though he were full-grown.

"You coddle him, too much. How will he ever learn to be a man, with you, rubbing him like that?" Bolstering tones resounded.

Yara stilled her hand, eyes slitting into a glare.

"I do not, coddle him!" Yara defended. "What would you have me do? He is still a toddler."

Maron scoffed, "I already had a dagger in hand, at his age!"

Maron was cruel, like Rodrik. Found unique pleasure in torturing those, misfortunate enough, to be underneath him. Maron, already reeved and raped with the best of them. Unapologetically.

"Yeah? Well unless you want one in your belly, I suggest you leave us in peace!" Yara planted Theon on his feet. With quick precision, she drew her own concealed dagger. Expertly primed it at his abdomen. Though she barely reached his middle in height—she made up for her physical disadvantages—in agility.

Seemingly, impressed Maron let out a roaring laugh. "You going to stab me, Little Sister?" She miscalculated as Maron reached out, gripped her wrist—and twisted. She screeched in crippling pain. Her bone cracked.

"Leave Ya-aa be!" Theon stamped forward, kicking at Maron's shin with his little booted foot. Swinging as hard as his muscles would allow.

Finally, Maron released her wrist. The pressure reduced, and he let out gut-busting laughs. And kicked Theon over. He tumbled. But refused to stay down. Came right back up—returning to kick at Maron's shin. "Stay down, runt!" Maron spat in annoyance. Yara fought back tears, with determined eyes.

"That brave enough for you, Brother?" Yara pointed down at little Theon. That same look of determination in his eyes. As he got up, each time he was kicked down. "Now, let him alone!" Yara hoisted Theon up with her unhurt arm. And backed away.

"Threaten me again, and I will do more than break your wrist." With that, Maron continued on his way. Making no comment on Theon's actions.

Yara watched him go; disdain in her eyes.

Settling onto the hard stone, Yara planted Theon on her lap. "That was very brave, Theon. But you should never provoke our brothers. Understand?"

"I unda-stand, Ya-aa. But he…hu-ut you." Stubby fingers vaguely brushed her swollen limb. She sucked in air. Still, refused to cry. Even though it hurt like the seven-hells. "I wanna…pra-tect…you."

Her lips brushed his forehead, "I know you do. You are my, baby brother. But I have to protect you. And I will not see you hurt for me, understand?"

Theon seemed displeased. But nodded all the same.

With that, Yara retrieved her dagger. Rejoined it, to its holster—shuffled Theon off her lap; and stood. Guiding them both toward the Maester.

* * *

Rodrik was adamant that Theon learn a skill. Any skill would suffice. So long as **a** skill was taken up. It was his seventh name day, after all. A skill should already have been formed.

Yara took it upon herself to engage the weapons forger. Theon had a steady arm; precision of upper body. Perhaps his lower-half would catch up.

**Someday**.

A week hence, she had given the instructions for the new weapon to be built. Wrapped in cloth, Yara went in search of little Theon.

It was rare for him to be out of her reach. So, used to the patter of his footfalls behind her. Yara found herself misguided, without them.

With a hint of where he might be; Yara slinked past a few servants. Directly into their mother's chambers.

Sure enough, Theon was draped on their mother's lap. Her shining-brown hair, let-down about her shoulders. Beautiful trills of song, echoed throughout the stone-walled, chambers. Theon, nestled in her arms. Listening to her in soundless, joy.

"Yara!" Theon's pronunciation of her name had evened itself out, by his fifth name day. His speech only remained inhibited by his crooked teeth. Rodrik, and Maron often made unkind-jests at Theon's expense due to his mildly-muffled speech impediment. Due to his teeth. It was a rarity, when Theon gave a toothy smile.

Their brothers decimated his self-confidence.

Now; Theon smiled. Crooked teeth—and all. For her.

**Only** for her.

"I wondered where you had run off to!" Eyes maneuvered, toward their Mother. Whom had Theon balanced now on her knee.

"I called for my baby boy." Their mother mused in contentment. Gentle-fingers swept through tight curls. Theon blushed.

"I am not a baby!" Folding his arms, he scrunched up his face.

Both Yara, and their mother descended into laughter.

"Of course, you are." Their mother spoke in gentle tones.

"I have a gift for you." Yara drew forward, held out the wrapped present.

Theon leaped down from his position on their mother's lap. With wide, bulging-eyes, unwrapped the cloth.

Hand-crafted, from sturdy wood of a weirwood tree; laid a bow. Smoothed out, for a gentle grip. The bowstring taut, firm.

Theon gaped at the presented gift. Tears came to his eyes.

"I am going to teach you how to use it, Theon. You have very strong arms. You will be an excellent archer." She promised.

Unexpectedly, his arms wound round her middle, head draped into her chest. "I love it, Yara. Thank you. I will cherish it, always!"

Her heart fluttered; arms encompassed his small frame.

"Can we go now?! I want to start, now!" Anxious-eyes turned to their mother.

"It is your name-day little one, of course you may!" Giving immediate permission, Theon scurried off. Hand in hers—dragging her along after him.

Minutes later, Theon stood. Arm balanced. Bow drawn. Yara behind him.

She guided him. Drew back his arm. And steadied it.

"You can do this. Now, Release." Whispers of encouragement were given.

He missed the target.

Howls of laughter came from the sidelines as Rodrik, and Maron beat the weathered table with their fists. Word had gotten around to them, that Theon got a bow for his name day. They would not miss a chance to further humiliate the youngest. Drunk. With overflowing cups of ale in their hands, they chugged.

Chortling.

Yara gave them each a death glare.

"How about you two, fuck off?!" Sharp-tongued, Yara saw the heated-flush coat Theon's cheeks.

"Nah, we are good right here, right Maron?" Maron nodded—they both drank.

"It is okay, Yara…I am rubbish."

Their brothers descended into cackling laughter, nearly choking on their ale in the process.

"No, Theon…You just have to practice. It is your first day, of course you will not hit the mark, every time."

"Hit the mark?! He cannot even hit the target!" Rodrik jeered. Descending into gut-busting laughter.

Frustration, finally took root. Yara grabbed the bow, loaded an arrow; aimed—and shot.

The arrow struck—right through Rodrick's ale. Shattering his goblet.

It was Theon's turn to laugh.

Yara reached for a second arrow, loaded it—and let loose.

This time, right through Maron's goblet.

She loaded again—and held.

"Make one more fucking joke, and I swear to the Drowned God the next one goes through your eye!" Bristling. Hazel-eyes dead-serious. The smiles were wiped right off their faces. Only Theon was snickering behind her.

"Do I have to break your fucking arm again, sister? Do not think I will not do it!" Maron threatened.

"Try it. I will have an arrow through your skull before you can cross the distance. Do not, tempt me. Now leave!"

Muttering—neither used to being told off, (and by their little sister no less), they departed. Leaving them in peace.

"Do you think I will be that good, one day?!" Light, green-eyes bored into hers.

Extending the bow back, toward him, Yara beamed, "No. I think you will be better."

* * *

**_Theon_**

Thunder banged; lightening lit the corners of shared bedchambers. Wide awake, Theon shifted.

Wide eyes set on Yara.

Skin antsy underneath the woolen blankets. Scratchy upon his skin—Theon made a sound in his throat.

Yara had told him—countless times—it was obscene to share a bed. But, hers was silky-soft, whilst his sheets felt itchy. Even her pillow was fluffier. Fuller with goose-feathers. Theon fidgeted.

He was seven—she was ten. It was improper.

"Just come on."

Theon jolted. Yara's form had not so much as budged. Nor rolled over. Merely knew he was tempted.

Scurrying across the rug-covered stone, Theon climbed underneath woolen-covers. Felt the silky-scratch on sullen-pink skin. Yara turned. Faced him.

Theon's curls stuck up at odd ends, and she flattened them down with her fingers. Drawing him in—warm lips pressed upon his cheek.

"There, There, Baby Brother. It is just a storm. We have them, more than not." It was incredibly rare for an Iron-born to fear a thunder storm.

He did.

He always had.

Something about the lightening that painted the backdrop of clouds, and sky. And the patter of raindrops, loud on the windowsill. It was enough to startle him, when shadows shone upon the walls with a flicker of lightening.

It was more than his fear, though. Yara's presence erupted this need in him. That burned so bright. Radiant. Right in the pit of his belly. She was not soft; Not with anyone else. Just him.

He saw her fears. Her joy. Sadness. Love.

He saw everything.

Another crack of lightening—Theon jolted in her arms.

Trembling like a leaf. Shuddering, Theon's eyes flicked closed. Yara rubbed soothing circles against the small of his back. Just where his spine, met hipbone.

Firm-tissue, quivered under her touch. Little gasps choked forth from pink-lips. Yara touched him often. Amiable, tender little grazes. She always had. Without, hesitation. As though she learned the unique-quips of his being, recording them to memory; just because she could.

Stolen instances that suggested, foreboding-thoughts within the back of his mind, were why, he came to her.

Why he wanted underneath the covers of **her** bed. Their chambers had been shared, for as long as he could recall. Yara pretended he was a burden—but Theon knew differently.

He felt it—in her touch.

Loving fingers traveled up. Brushed the center of his back. Right up to his shoulder-blades. Rubbing soft circles into the skin. Theon made little whines. Inched in closer, to Yara. Until, their bodies were on top of each other. Flesh warmed through their thin-nightclothes.

The more she touched. Grazed. Stroked—The less fear the storm brought. Rather, the storm faded into hindsight. All Theon could see—was Yara. Her poignant features. Abstractly-curved nose. Wide-set eyes.

A very different reaction came from him. Blood rushed down. Cheeks paled, another part of him, awakened. Firm, needful—erect. Tenting his nightgown, Theon felt heightened confusion.

Tight-pressed to her midriff; Yara seemed to notice. Though offered a comfortable smile.

"Baby Brother, does my touch, excite you? Hm?" Low hums sounded in her throat.

Hot-flushes made themselves known upon warmed cheeks.

Lightening glared for a flash throughout their spacious chambers. He did not so much as flinch.

Yara's hand skimmed down. Around to his front. Brushed the firmness, of his enflamed-rod. He gave an involuntary-rut forward, with set hips. Firmly, Yara grasped him.

"What is it you really want, Baby Brother?" Sultry words, echoed.

Theon's hormone-ridden consciousness, droned the words together. But the Iron-born genes that tainted his blood; guided him. He knew—Always had, really.

Closing the gap, between their lips. Theon united their petals. His brim, grazed hers. Lower, lip guided to suckle on hers. Inexperienced; Theon learned.

Her firm grip, snaked around his girth, providing ample-stimulation where he burned deepest.

Timidly, Theon explored. Skirting the length of her skin. The stroke of her hand—rose in momentum. Panting against her lips. Theon felt the pleasure rise. Until…

White, hot explosions sped behind, his eyes. Sticky, hot-liquid, burst from inside of him. Yara made a low gasp. As though, surprised.

"W-What happened?" Theon, uncertain, looked to Yara for comfort. He never felt anything like this previously. "That…should not have occurred. You are not…old enough." Curiously, she sought out the wet patch. Licked the salty-tang from her finger.

"Why…did it, then?" He inquired.

She only provided a shrug for him. Quizzically, seeking out his emerald-eyes.

Theon hissed from sensitivity, as Yara rubbed the whole of his back. Cuddling him, like she did when he was a true, infant. The stickiness, cooled. But he cared not. He was sated. The need gone.

Yet, he did not want to quit kissing her. Seeking out her petals, Theon connected them. Kissed in warmed expenditure. "I want to…for you…" Consideration lit her hues. Finally, with slight hesitation. Yara complied. Guided his hand down underneath her nightgown—Identical to his—only to permit him access to a warm, moist gash between well-toned thighs.

"The key to a female's pleasure, is here, Baby Brother."

She in-took a suction of air. Directed his tiny fingers to a particular spot. A pearl-sized bulk of flesh. Curiously, Theon brushed with a finger. He was immediately rewarded with a breathy-moan.

"Twirl your finger around it." She could barely talk. Wetness gathered; pooled, down below.

Her words were lost. Theon twirled faster—until, she shook. Vibrated. And finally, removed his hand. "Like that, Theon. Just like that."

Her voice was hoarse.

Theon captured her petals. Fingers wet with her essence brushed her cheek.

Scent of their excitement encompassed their chambers.

"I want to be held by you. Every night—for the rest of my life." Naively, whispered. Yara only gave a small, sympathetic-smile.

And Theon nodded off. Spent from the ups, and downs of the night.

Content, wholly—in Yara's arms.

The storm, long-forgotten, in his mind.

* * *

Laughter rang out. Despite the thick mud underfoot. Theon was practically caked in the mucky mixture. Having fallen ungracefully—countless times already. Feet would stick to the ground. And he would topple. Yara would point—laugh. And run away.

He was determined to catch her.

Hours of practice with a bow, and arrow taught Theon precision. Structure. Skill. But his legs were still uncoordinated.

Slower than the rest of him to learn.

By the end—He was determined to have her covered, too.

So far—only her skirts, and boots were coated in muck.

As she scurried—He hauled himself diagonally with one last surge of strength.

And then—They collided.

Thrown off her feet, Yara squealed—and Theon felt the crash of Earth, as they met it.

He did it!

He caught her!

Theon could nary believe it himself. The muscled-warmth. Hard-curves. He savored the feel of her.

Their brothers would taunt him for his petite stature. Small muscles, non-existent height. They boasted of their height at his age. They were towering monstrosities now.

Theon would never be their size.

Yara appeared stunned.

Their mother would not scold them for rucked clothes. It was she that encouraged them to play at will.

"I win, Yara. I **finally**, win!" Theon squirmed on top of her. Still unwilling to relinquish his dominant place—on top.

She huffed, not fighting him. Instead—peered curiously up at him. The molten feel in his belly—churned. Bubbled. Hazel optics, met sea-green. His chest fluttered. His head spun with wooziness.

"What will you do now? Baby Brother?"

Theon fidgeted.

"I am not a baby!" He hissed.

The compulsion to stay here—right here. On top of her, remained. Sank deep into his lower belly. Made his flesh scream for more. No one saw him as an almost-man. Rodrik was seen as a man, at twelve. Given a ship to rule by their father. He took command. Gave orders. Villages to raid. Countless women to rape. He **took** what he wanted. Gave nothing. **Ever**.

Theon wanted the same. Strength. Power.

Empowered by the thrilling rush of adrenaline, Theon acted.

Clutched her pudgy waist. Met his lips forcefully to hers. As they had—many times before. Soft, pink-things. He somehow, always expected them to be rough. Like her temperament. But she was surprisingly smooth underneath his touch—Supple. Hands roamed; sought, round curves to her budding breasts. He felt through rough-fabric of her teal-dress.

She often, would touch him. Rub his back, brush his cheek. Kiss his forehead. His lips. Her actions cemented this closeness between them. He burned with the proof of it. And often; returned those actions in full.

She returned the melding kiss. Pushed her tongue, hard, between his lips. Sought entrance, dominated his tongue—brushed uneven, teeth.

Finally, Theon came up for air. Pupils dilated. Skin bursting with need. Rain showering down from the heavens. It was unlikely—anyone else witnessed their moment. They had never been so obvious. Nor careless.

"Was that your prize? A kiss? We kiss all the time, Baby Brother." Yara was taunting him. He could hear it in her tone.

No one took him seriously. Perhaps, not even Yara.

Blood rushed to fill his lower-half. Bursting, coursing to that one place. And he felt it. Painfully hard—swollen against her middle. Her eyebrow raised.

"No—**You** are my prize." Theon boasted. The only way he would be taken seriously—was to pay the Iron Price. Yara was several inches taller—and three years older. Never once, did it occur to him—She could easily overpower him. Shove him off—She never did.

Theon bunched up her skirts. Right there—in the mud, and rain. Freed his prick from the constraints of his breeches. Tore at her undergarments—then, pushed up, inside her warm-cunt.

One, swift movement. No hesitance.

Her hymen tore around him—she was **virginal**? With her rough, tough exterior, he assumed she knew a man. At least **once**. Her skills in fighting—were legendary. For a female of thirteen. And when they touched—her skilled hands **always** brought him off.

Her back arced. She made a whine—and he groaned. She was tight around him. Firm—and her muscles squeezed the invading girth of him. Connecting their lips, Theon began to rut. He had spied on their brothers with their own salt-wives. Seen them rape, bruises into pretty-flesh. Bite, ravage. Though he knew roughness—it was never that way with Yara—not in these moments. Theon never committed this act, himself.

Never felt the inside of a cunt. But he knew how to toss himself off. Just a bit of a flick in his wrist. And he would spend.

"Theon…" Never, was she lost for words. Until now.

Nails dug through his shirt, into his biceps. He grunted, groped her ample globes, with excited-fingers.

"You were a maiden?" Theon taunted, exceedingly impressed. Also, rather proud of himself. For bedding her **first**. As, bedraggled, muck-soaked, and hidden by fog, and rain, as they were. Theon knew there was next to no chance, any could catch them. Rutting in the mud.

"Tell anyone, and I will skin you alive." Sharp-tongued words cut through him.

Theon's belly roared with urgency.

"I am a man, now. You cannot deny it. You have made me a man, Sister. And I paid the Iron Price for it." Cheeks cupped in his palms. Theon gave a final grunt of requisite. Then came apart.

Seed spilled, broiling from his balls. Pulsing thick spurts inside her cunt.

Theon felt her quiver. Squirm. Whine. And lowered a hand. Pushed his thumb-pad, just there. Against her juddering nub.

She came. Back arched, skin fiery-hot.

"No matter, how many girls you fuck—or pay the Iron Price for—You will still be **my** baby brother." Yara whispered, after some time passed.

Theon did not want any other girl. Only Yara.

"I only want you." Spoken in hushed tones. Theon had ached to be inside of her—for a while now.

She never let him, before.

"You should not—and you **know** that." Relations between siblings was expressly forbidden. He felt bound to her. By blood—By more. Despite her tough-curves. Bitter-edges. He loved her.

"I care not." Theon bolstered, stubbornly. "It is you, or no one."

Yara only gave a smile. Knowing; however, neither of them could have **truly** known—what was to come.

* * *

Fear clutched his Iron-born heart. Scents of death muddled the air. Screams—cries. Wails loud enough they seemed to rattle halls.

Rodrik was dead. Run through by a sword.

And the castle end, where Maron had been fighting—had collapsed.

Theon huddled in their chambers.

Iron-armor built around his petite body. Skin built with sweat—screamed with savagery.

He was afraid. Petrified. He was Balon's last, surviving son, now. Yara, was all that was left.

No love would be lost between himself, and his elder brothers—but that never meant he willed them dead. With him, left the heir.

And the castle was still under siege. Even fearless, heroic, Yara had a wild look in her eye. Scared, shaking with his bow in hand. He stood before her; prepared to fight for her.

He would protect her—even if he died, too.

Yara had weapons. Her concealed dagger, and a blood-coated sword, they snatched off a dead castle guard, as they fled.

Steady—she held the thing before her.

They were both coated in ash, blood, and filth. With shaking fingers, Theon lowered his bow. Turned to face Yara.

"I-If we die, I want you to know that I regret nothing. **None** of it." And he did not. How could he?

He balanced on his toes, and kissed her. She returned the kiss. Need pooled in his belly from the adrenaline. But there were not safe yet—this was **not** over.

"Me neither, Baby Brother." For the first time—He did not correct her. Only gave a frightened glance.

He drew his bow. The crashing grew nearer. Fighting. Dying. Screaming.

Suddenly, the door burst open. But there were too many to fight.

Too many to hope to take down. They were vastly outnumbered. Theon dropped his bow. Turned to Yara, and she surrendered her sword. It too clattered with a tinny sound to the stone.

Their weapons were collected. Bodies were searched. Yara's dagger taken. Theon's arrows confiscated.

But they were prisoners.

Not dead. There was still hope.

In seconds, the men had departed, planted a guard outside their door. Commenting about their only being 'children' after all.

Shaking like a leaf, Theon nuzzled into Yara's embrace. Fearful, for their father—for their **mother**. Where **was** their mother? He lost sight of her in the thick of it.

Yara's fingers whisked through strands of his mottled curls. Half-collapsing on her bed. He huddled close to her pudgy-bodice.

She was warmth, comfort. Love. Others saw a hard, impossible female. He saw his strong, competent sister. Yara.

**His** Yara.

"What will they do to us?" Theon was merely ten. His sister thirteen. She knew more—always had. Would they die? Would they live?

"I do not know, Baby Brother. Come now, let us get you out of this armor? Hm?" Calmly. Patiently. Nimble fingers began to unlatch the hard-iron. Piece by piece, it fell away. Discarded. Forgotten onto the throw-rug. Until only his breeches, and tunic, remained. Sweat had compiled within the trapped-heat of heavy armor. Drenched his clothes, completely. Skin bristled with the feel of being able to breathe again.

Yara wore a plain dress. Coated in filth, there was not a piece of armor provided to her. She was a **girl**. And their father would not have permitted her to dress any other manner.

Pyke was never meant to be breached, in the first place. It was Iron-clad. Supposedly, impenetrable.

Until, today.

Theon felt the burn of her touch. Stealthy, calculated fingers stirred all of his fear, adrenaline—lust—into one sentient-compulsion.

"Try not to think on it…Any of it…"

Suddenly, all he could think on—was Yara. Physical, resilient, Yara.

And her damned touches that could drive any sane man, stark-raving mad.

He flared to life, captured her lips. Stole from them, needful—kisses. If this was it for them—then so be it.

But he would sate this frustration—He would lose himself to everything.

Careless fingers, shredded her dress. Tore ruined-fabric, clean open. Let her breasts tumble out, free. Raised her skirts; freed the throb of his need—and took her.

Just like their first time. It was wrong. Sick—Compulsive. And **theirs**.

Purely theirs.

Would there even be anything left of the Iron-Islands to rule? He knew not. He could **already**, be the King of their Islands—Their father may yet, be dead already.

And he cared not.

Only cared to sate what Yara woke.

Mouths fought for dominance; tongues tangled. Skin collided—and it all felt so exhilarating.

Fear dwindled, care with it. All stressors from battle, forewent his thoughts. And he descended into whinny moans as he spent, on top of her. Seed pooled in her cunt. Warmth fused them together, in sweat—and filth.

Green optics found hazel.

His thumb brushed her cheek. How did he say goodbye? How else could he say; this would be the end of them?

He felt it in his bones. They would execute him. Her. Their father.

The Iron-Islands would be no more.

Hot-tears leaked down onto her skin. Yara brushed back his curly strands of hair.

"I know, Baby Brother. I **know**." Was all she would relinquish.

Theon had never seen her so frightened.

Not brave. Strong. Yara.

But he saw her fright. Felt it.

He descended into tears. And succumbed to the warmth of her arms. Like he had, since he could recall. This was them. She was everything.

* * *

Hauled out, into the midst of countless eyes. Theon felt fear grip his heart.

His father must be dead. So little remained of their precious, Pyke.

Chains clamored up ahead. No one bothered to chain him. He was a lad—barely ten. What harm could he cause them?

Yara was close behind.

He felt her presence.

He caught her eye, then faced ahead.

Halted in front of a great heap of a man, he saw his father. Chained, hands drawn together—He was alive, after all.

Relief strained his chest. But his green-eyes landed on that heaping man with full armor. Brown-hair. Seemingly kind, troubled eyes.

"This is your son? Lord Theon Greyjoy?" Theon's shoulders straightened. Trim frame, bravely prepared to meet his demise.

He would not have those gathered, view him cowering. He would **never** cower.

His father gave a pointed glance in his direction. Broken eyes landed on his youngest boy. "Aye, It is."

Theon gave a hard-pointed stare at the seemingly innocuous brown-haired man.

"Then he will be the one I take home to Winterfell. Until, he comes of age, and shall return home to rule the Iron Islands." Theon's eyes widened in horror.

Taken? He would not be permitted to stay in his home?

And what of Yara?

"I will not leave! I will **not** go! Father! Tell them I will **not**!" Theon knew of the North. It was frigid cold, blustering with snow. Wretched. And the people were a wild breed. He knew **now** whom stood before him. Ned Stark.

"I will not go!"

"You will do as I bid, boy!" His father snapped.

Theon shivered. Eyes turned to Yara.

"Father he is your only remaining son! He needs to be **here**! With his **people**!" Yara too spoke out.

"I will hear no more. Take him, and be **gone** with you!"

Theon broke into tears. Betrayal stabbed in his heart. How could this man—his Father—do this?!

"Where is Mother? I want to see Mother?!" Theon shouted out as his sister coiled her arms around his middle. And he clung tight to her.

"Your mother is dead. She died in the siege." It was Ned that responded. His father would not look at him.

Wide-eyed, Theon's heart shattered. He lost everyone. Everything. And now…now he would be taken. A month's travel from his sister—His Yara. He would lose Yara, too.

They descended into sobs. His knees gave out, and he dragged Yara down with him to the cold-stone. Rain—thunder—beat in on the stone-walls just outside. As though the skies were crying tears of sorrow for their losses.

Sweet. Caring. Kind.

Their mother had meant everything. To **both** of them.

And she too, was claimed by this **wretched** battle.

Nudged into her hair, Theon scented her. Memorized the sweat on her skin, the manner in which she touched his back, neck, hair, chest.

No one touched them. Not for several minutes. Theon felt broken.

Lost.

He was never meant to be an heir. **Never**. His elder brothers were. Both strong, resilient, fighters. Never gave in—never gave up. And they were cut down like flies.

How could he ever run **this** place?

Arms were gripping him. Hoisting him from his place, comforting Yara. It was the first time he saw her cry—really cry—and now…now he would not see her. Not for a long time. Perhaps, not **ever**.

"Father! Please! Do not do this! I want to be here! I need to be here! Father please! Please!" He shouted through tears, to no avail. His father would not look. Would not see.

His Yara was on her knees. Prevented from coming to him by knights. And the last flash of Yara he saw—was the forlorn stare in her eyes.

The brokenness, that could **never** be repaired.

* * *

**_Yara_**

Soldiers left. Ships sailed from the shore.

And the rain cleared as though it never came. Sun shone down on the rocks.

Pyke was highlighted in all of its disastrous beauty.

Her father did not speak—descended instead, into his chambers—refusing to emerge.

And Yara.

Yara felt the absence of her baby brother, everywhere she turned.

Their chambers—were now solely, hers.

His bed was removed. His portrait left behind, to remind her of his face. He was young then—perhaps seven when it was painted. But it was his likeness.

Yara's back to the window, she felt how lonely it was. How empty.

Quiet.

No arms to hold her. No promises to be kept in her ears.

Just emptiness.

When thunderstorms erupted—Theon did not come to cower in her bed. There were no more kisses. No more touches.

She was forbidden, even to write to him. And he to her.

It was unfair, to punish them both for their father's crimes. But life was never fair in the Iron Islands.

Their brothers paid the Iron Price to lose their home. And Theon would pay with years of his life—for poor choices of Balon.

Yara listened to the birds sing. And the heavens open up. Each day—She missed Theon.

Possibly, even missed her eldest brothers. Their loud, know-it-all, dispositions. What she would not give—to depart from this emptiness.

Hollowness.

And then—weeks later, the sudden click of her chamber door. A guard stood before her.

"Your father wishes to have words with you, in his chambers." Yara's back straightened, eyebrows knitted together.

"What for?"

"He demands your presence. That is all."

Yara gives one final glance at her chambers—as she walked from inside—Closing the door—with a click.

* * *

**_Theon_**

The north is precisely as it was described. Cold. Stormy. Temperamental.

And the people—are not his people.

After weeks of being sailing, then riding on land, far inland of the sea—Theon felt the comforts of home, fade from view.

Yara, with it.

Unfamiliar faces gaped in on him.

Winterfell's halls were unwelcoming, dark. Dreary.

He felt the mistrusting eyes on his every move. He could not use the privy without a reproachful stare.

Was it likely that he would run?

He knew not how to make it back to the sea.

And even if he could, it would only put those he loved in danger.

He wept at night. Felt the loneliness of his strange chambers. The shadows on the walls would frighten him. Thunderstorms were less.

He thanked the Gods for that small mercy.

But he missed the warmth of Yara, at his side. Her skin on his skin. Her lips on his lips. Her comforting touches. He received none of that here.

He was belted for disobeying, when he attempted to write to Yara. He felt the sting of the belt for days after. He felt rough fists of other little boys. Their hatred for his family profound, since their fathers had died at his family's hands.

He returned to his chambers with a blackened eye, and sore skin.

Most nights he found solace in the soft memories of his sister's touch. They were all he had.

Though Ned was a kind man, he was strict. Doled out punishments where he felt they were deserved.

Theon lost his various trinkets from home when he outwardly showed defiance, or boastfulness. Catelyn would seize them. Boasting was not tolerated in the North. No man should be so proud of himself that he believes himself better than all the rest.

Catelyn was unlike his mother. She was not soft, and warm. She did not hold him—only chastised him. Belittled him. As she did Jon.

Robb was his age. A youth of honor, respect. Jon was less than a year younger, with a genuine, kindness, considering he was also an outsider there. Theon was unused to these ways. Sansa was cold toward him. Ayra, too. Bran was little. Newly born.

Theon found little comfort anywhere.

His final prized possession was the bow, Yara had, had made for him. She taught him on that bow. Had it crafted specifically for him. And he found it, snapped in half, discarded on his bed. The message was clear.

He was unwanted here. He was not a ward; just a prisoner.

And prisoners—did not get keepsakes.

Theon spent the night in tears. Wept; sheltered underneath the furs that piled his bed. Another commodity unfound in the Iron Islands. Fur blankets.

He mourned his family. His soft mother. And his brave sister. His Yara.

He took his home for granted. And now—He did not know if he could **ever** hope to see it again.


	2. Fractured Consequence of Separation

**Part 2; Fractured Consequence of Separation.**

* * *

_What you are to me_

_has no understanding_

_unless you can_

_understand what_

_forever and infinity_

_truly mean._

* * *

**_Theon_**

Had ten years truly transpired since last, Theon tasted salt on his tongue? Wind-whipped across reddened cheeks. Skin tingled upon the feel of the ship-deck beneath his soles.

Rope burns on his palms. This was surreal—He was **free**.

No, longer a prisoner—a ward—of Stark-kin.

Theon was a man. With Iron-blood. Same as he was born.

He had known the warm-flesh of Northern women; taken the virginity of several. Even the captain's daughter—on this vessel.

Although, the North tried—they never broke his spirit. Raw. Harrowing. Pride.

It was constructed into his seeded depths. Planted there by his brothers—the memory of his people—of Yara.

Her likeness, had faded from memory.

Certain aspects of what they were—who there were; had not.

Iron-Islands well in view, Theon felt the breeze ruffle, thick curls. Tasted the wind. Rain. Salt.

He forgot how rainy it was, once. How cold.

He once believed the North to be cold, unforgiving—but so were the Iron Islands. His own people. Northern women were soft, tender creatures. Northern men, lacked arrogance. Drowned in their humility. Theon refused to bend. Never broke.

He was slender, tall, even-toned with muscle. He might not share his elder brothers' sheer bulk, nor cascading height—but he was a man. Nonetheless.

Having learned skills with a sword, he was a formidable opponent. Never losing his abilities with a bow—either. Theon kept a palm-sized, smooth, piece of the weirwood bow, Yara gifted him for his seventh name day. Tucked into his change-purse. It was his single, surviving piece of home.

He bid, farewell to the captain. Sought his home, on the horizon-line. Pyke stood tall; proud as ever. Waiting on him.

He wondered how his homeland fared in his wake. Had it dwindled? He was given only minimal scraps of news within the borders of Winterfell.

Lest he gather a notion to pick up—and flee.

His sea-legs had disintegrated, over the years. He had not been on a ship, since he was ten. As a youth, he spent many days on the decks of his brothers' ships. Learning, alongside Yara.

The first man he greeted—was unkind to him—rather cold.

Was he not missed, here? Even remotely?

Crestfallen, Theon kept his back straight. He would not let them see—it hurt. To be forgotten.

He had been kept clear of this place—too long. Not even his clothes—were Iron Islander clothes. He was dressed as a Northman. No wonder, no one recognized him.

Suddenly, Theon spotted her there.

Bold, lean, well-toned. Hard. Like all Iron-Born girls. A coaxing smile on her petals.

Was she eying him up, and down?

He returned the favor. Let his eyes scour her form. Felt a familiar twist in his gut. Arousal spiraled in his belly. She would do well, as a salt-wife. He wondered if another of the Iron Island men, claimed her.

Sporting breeches, like a man. A tightfitting leather-jerkin. Such a rarity—for a woman donned in anything, other than dresses. Even here.

"You planning to accompany me to Pyke?" Theon teased. Sea-green eyes taunted hers. Such a pretty-female.

"I am." Soft-toned vocals came out.

Despite, just having, had a go with the captain's daughter—Theon felt raring to go again. Stamina ran deep in his blood.

"Come on, then."

Theon rode behind her. Felt the warm-heat of her ass, right to his front. He was erect in his breeches. Tempted to pull off the road—and have her in the filth—and mud—like a true Iron-Blooded man. Theon held himself back.

Tamped himself down.

Once, Theon vowed that Yara would be his only woman. But he grew. His appetites shifted—and years without her, had been unbearable. His flesh had sung with the memory of a hot-cunt around his prick. And he had so little comfort in Winterfell. He had to seek it out somewhere. First with the Farmer's wife. Then the whores, at the brothel. Ros, his preferred. Women provided him with warm arms to lay in. Tight, hot, cunts to fuck. And pleasant knowledge to be had. That he was not alone.

He squeezed her ample globes. Felt warm, squish, underneath his fingertips. Then, decided upon his very first lesson, in pleasuring a woman. One-hand slid down, past the waistband of her breeches. Right there—to finger her pearl. It swelled. She tilted back.

Finally, going silent. Pliant in his embrace.

"W-Where did y-you learn t-that?" Her voice piped up. Breathless.

Theon chuckled. "From a girl. First one I had, taught me the way to pleasure a woman, was through this." His thumb, tweaked her pearl. And she jolted. And came.

Spasmed against his front. He gave open-mouthed kisses to her neck.

"A-And did you l-love her?"

Theon twirled his index, absently, reveling in her little hitches of breath, and squeaks.

"Once." Hesitantly, he admitted it. "Why, are you jealous?"

She hummed, still regaining her senses; but made no move to answer.

* * *

**_Yara_**

She would know him **anywhere**.

Thick, dusky, curls. Eyes green as the sea-waves.

She would **know**.

Even if he filled out, stripped off body-fat. Gained a few inches on her own, leaner build—She would know. Countless nights they huddled near—leached off each other's body heat. He used to plead to share her bed.

How could he not recognize **her**?

Her mind screamed that she had changed. Their father, distraught without a male heir at his side, readied **her**. Permitted her clothes to transform into that of a male's. Breeches. Jerkin. Rather than floor-length dresses. Jewels.

As a youth, she had prettied up.

Their mother would dress her hair. The servants apply her dress-ensemble.

Yara attempted to restrain her disappointment, upon his casual survey, of her attractiveness.

So that was how he gauged now? A lady's worth? What laid underneath her clothes?

Perhaps he was no different than the men on her crew. Tough. Cocky. Uncouth.

She learned to masquerade as these as well. But deep-**deep** down, Yara was still **her**. Nearly forgotten how to be a true Lady; But she naively thought her brother, might **still** treat her as one.

Or even, **recognize** her.

She spent their formative years, favoring him. Raising him.

And he spent those same years; loathing their brothers for their cruel, unkind mannerisms.

Only to become just like them?

She knew—When emerald-eyes gave cheeky, promiscuous, connotations—he had done this many a-time.

Just how many sexual partners had, Theon taken?

In that instant, Yara made the decision; to play coy. Naïve. Innocent.

It was not who she was—**never** who she was, really. Something way down deep—gave her the need to know, what kind of man he was.

Became; in his extended absence.

When warm-calloused hands, found the dip of her waistline—The swell of her breasts. She had to stifle back, moans. She had **missed** those hands.

Yet, internally, her instincts reminded her—this was **not** Theon. Not as she knew him. Not her affectionate, loving, baby brother. But a **man**; a stranger to her now. He commanded such a presence; such a stirring of esteem, what woman would not spread her thighs for him?

Suddenly, his hand wormed down—Straight within her smallclothes. Pressed firm. Rough on her pearl—like she taught him.

Memories had seared through her consciousness. Images of curious, wide-green eyes. Pleas to know just how to pleasure a female in reciprocal. Every whisper in her ear—about who taught him. Made her shudder. Then come.

No man, could do that to her. No woman, either.

**Only** Theon.

Jealous. Was she jealous? Part of her screamed that she was.

But had she been faithful to him? Would she hold him to a word he made, in his tenth year?

"No. She must have been special to you." Was all she regarded.

"Let's not talk of her, hm? She **bored** me. I need a salt-wife that will keep me, entertained. Think you are capable of that?" Shock pulsed up her spine at his choice words—another jolt—when rough-fingers lifted, only to smack back down on her cunt. Then— his hand withdrew.

Yara bit on her tongue, to cease from using her most spiteful words on him.

She would not be property. No man's property. **Ever** again.

She bit back tears of disdain. She had raised him better—Their mother too.

He was Iron-Born; stubborn. And all the worst traits of their brothers.

He was not **her** Theon. Not anymore.

The North had **ruined** him.

* * *

**_Theon_**

Anger. Disbelief. Shock.

All billowed through him; when Yara revealed herself. Right before their father nonetheless. Made a **fool** of him. Conned him into touching her. Groping her.

Theon swallowed back tears. Bile.

Why would she do that?

What if he had told their father? What then? Speculation had been abundant when they were youths. They shared chambers. Servants woke to find Theon in Yara's bed. What else could they have surmised?

But to trick him? **Perversely**?

He vowed internally, a long time since, that their days as children were **play**. Nothing more.

No one could fault children for their innocent games. Theirs was to **play** at lovers. She taught him how to pay the Iron Price—and the proper way to fondle a woman. He stole comfort from her heated arms—and gave it when the need arose.

He had to lock out fleeting memories. To survive in the North.

**Without** her.

Had great need to find a foothold—and he **had**. In women. He found comfort in fucking them. Degrading them—as he had been degraded, countlessly, in the North.

Yara had been round in the middle. Homely in the face—but he found beauty in her. Most expectedly—she had been in girlish dresses. Whether they suited her mannish frame, or not. Not men's breeches, and jerkins. How **could** he recognize her? His last memory of her likeness was fogged over in his mind.

Their tearful goodbye in the main hall of Pyke. Surrounded by heaps of strangers. Dragged apart; made to pack—then forced upon a ship.

Possibly to never return.

It was a memory he **strained** to forget. For years—And **had**.

Petrified. Theon delved down deep. Yara claimed his place. Alongside their father. Upon the Iron Island's fleet of ships. Slowly. Surely. Theon found his home—no longer wanted him.

Winterfell was **never** home.

The Iron Islands are unwelcoming. Greeted like a **stranger** in his own homeland.

Theon felt his stomach gripe. How could he **ever** rule here?

Yara was cold. Angered by his misinterpretation of who she was. He felt like the ten-year-old boy that arrived at Winterfell.

All over again.

Stripped from his identity—Unwanted. Uncared for.

Despised.

Yara gave him the same death glare she once did Maron, and Rodrik.

He felt it down deep—in his bones. He was strong. Bold. Iron-Born. But what did that mean, without the support, nor love, nor even **respect**, of those that he was someday meant to lead?

Yara commanded ships. Lived. Ate. Breathed—the sea. Whilst he rotted up in the North. Accused of betrayal by his father. He felt torn. Robb always treated him as a brother. Kindlier than his own.

And yet—Yara had been his first love. If he dug real down-deep. If he was—honest.

It had meant more than playthings. More than comfort. More than fucking.

And it all hit him—all at **once**.

When he was alone, in the chambers they used to share. When he found a spare moment, away from Yara, and his father's judgmental mistrusting eyes.

Theon **loved** her.

Same as he **always** had.

Their chambers had **changed**. Evolved. Yara's things scattered the spacious room. What was once a twin-sized bed. Now was king. Piled with wool-blankets, he had not seen since his departure towards the North. He thought to the rabbit-fur blanket, carried with him aboard the ship. Meant to be a gift for Yara—would she even accept it now?

After their repulsive, reintroduction?

Or would she further accuse him of becoming a soft-bellied, Northern, man?

Theon settled on the edge of a trunk. Positioned at the end of her bed. Green-optics sought out the image—He nearly forgot.

Poised alongside Yara—Their portrait. Made for their shared chambers. His **likeness**. She looked upon his likeness, each night. Her bed faced the portrait. Of **course**, she would recognize him. He had not held the same privilege.

These chambers, once so large—now felt so confining. Small.

Theon felt tears fill his eyes. It had been a long time, since he allowed himself to cry. Iron-Born did not show weakness.

To cry—was to be weak.

Reaching within his purse; Theon tugged out the easily concealed, piece of bow. Rubbed the smooth edge with his thumb. Bitter tears, cascaded down worn-cheeks.

Why had he come **back** here? Convinced Robb he could help him?

Their father had practically laughed in his face. Yara, too.

Once, all he desired was to come home—to Yara.

Now, he felt the ache of that truth—Everywhere.

His own kin believed him a traitor to his **blood**—Home.

"Come to share my bed, Baby Brother?" Startled. Theon scrambled to hide away the piece of wood. And wipe, chilled-tears. It was too late—She saw.

"No! Of **course** not!" Defensive-toned. Theon responded.

"What do you have there?" Without awaiting his answer. She yanked it from him.

He reached to swipe it back, but she held it out of reach. Curiously, ran her thumb along the wood. Theon stormed to his feet.

"Give it back." Sounded through clenched teeth; his eyes became slits.

"Weirwood?" Suddenly, Understanding came to call. "Is this a piece of the bow I gifted you, Brother?"

"Give. It. Back." Spoken through gritted teeth, Theon's eyes darkened.

She extended it to him.

"I thought you would cherish it, forever. Or was that another of your lies, Baby Brother?" Her tone was unreadable—although, hurt might have wavered somewhere in there.

He snatched it back. Tucked it safely away. "What do you care?" Bitterly, Theon swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Was anything you said true? Or was it all just to use me, as your whore?" Avoidant of the question. Theon's heart prickled.

"I made a mistake, coming back here."

"Finally, something we can both agree on." Yara concurred.

Stung. Theon made haste toward her chamber doors. Just at the exit; He piped up.

"You turned into a real bitch; you know that?!" He spun round to face her.

"You turned into a fucking cunt, so we have that in common."

Bristling; Theon's face turned beet-red.

"I am still Father's heir! And you will not speak to me that way! You have no idea what it was like there! Not even an inkling! You got to stay here. Pampered by Father. Given all your heart ever desired, whilst my home forgot about me! The true heir! You are just an undesirable, replacement! But I am back now! The Iron-Islands are mine! Mine to rule. Not yours! I am Father's last surviving son! These Islands are **mine**!"

Yara descended into laughter. "Really, Baby Brother? And how many ships do you command? How many men are loyal to you? Would die for you? Because I have hundreds at my disposal, and you have…Oh—None."

Of all the manners in which he could be welcomed home—this was never in his imaginings. That she would turn on him. So brutally.

"So what? You plan to take the Iron Islands from me, Sister? To trample on my birthright? Why? Because I stuck my prick in other girls? Are you jealous?"

"I have run men through for less than you have spoken, just now!" Yara fronted. Dagger drawn, hard-pressed to his belly.

"Then do it! Run me through! Go on!" Sudden glimpses in his memory banks; drew him back. To stone-floors. Snide words from Maron. Sickening crack of bone.

He saw a shift in her eyes. Something concealed there.

"You are a cunt. I would not stain my expensive-carpets with your blood." Her tone diminished.

Theon reacted. Gripped her wrist—pushed his thumb in—deep. Yara winced—dagger clattered to the carpet.

Anger surged in his belly. How could she treat him this way?

"Go on—You have already become them, Theon. If mother could see you now…"

As though—burned—Theon released her. Wounded green-eyes, met hazel.

"I am **not**, Maron." Through gritted teeth—Theon persisted.

He had not been going to do it. He would **never** hurt, Yara. Despite her distrust of him. Those hateful death-glares, reserved for her worst enemies.

The break in bone—never healed properly. Theon remembered. Used the knowledge as leverage—but not to re-break the bone.

"You are, Theon. And Rodrick, too. You are the very worst of them. The worst of us."

Theon blinked back tears. "You really think so little of me? What do you know of what I went through? Do you think it was enjoyable in the North? Do you think I spent every day since I left, bedding whores, and betraying my oath to you? Is that it?"

Yara pointedly, raised her chin. "Did you not, Brother?"

Theon's chest stung. As though hit with a ton of bricks. "I tried to send a raven to you—my first day at the castle—Lady Catelyn had me beat for it. I took beatings for what our father, and brothers did from the village boys. Lady Catelyn took everything I brought with me, from me. Bit by bit. Until only the bow you gifted me, remained. Then, someone snapped it, into pieces—and left it on my bed. This—" Holding up the smooth-wooden piece, "—Is all that I have left of my home. Of you. So yeah, I sought comfort in whores. Years after I was dumped there—forgotten—like rubbish. While you took command of my ships. Conspired to take my birthright away from me—I held out —for five years. I only wanted you, that was not a deception, Yara. I **burned** for you—every night, Sister. Until I could not withstand it anymore. There was a kindly farmer's wife. She reminded me of our mother. She offered me comfort—and I took it." Having backed her into the wall—Hazel-eyes flickered with emotion. Which emotion—he could not readily tell. "Have you been faithful, Yara? Hm?"

"You think I plotted against you, Baby Brother? You think I orchestrated Father's decision to make me the captain of **your** fleet? Father was a ghost for months. After you were taken—he did not emerge from his chambers at all! Then—One day, he called me to his chambers. Informed me that I would no longer be his daughter, attired in gowns. But his daughter—the captain of his fleet. I would learn how to lead. He trained me, because he thought you, lost. He believed Ned would never return you to the Iron Islands. And even if he did—he never trained you to take command. Not as he had Rodrik, and Maron. I did not ask for this, Theon. But it is the hand I was dealt—and I **like** being a captain. I **like** commanding the Iron Fleet. And I will **fight** to keep my place. You want my ships? My men? My fleet? Then **take** them." Fire burned—inflamed—in hazel-eyes. "No—I was **not** faithful to you, Baby Brother. I have laid with men—women—whomever strikes my fancy. I am Iron-Born, just like you. And if we want something—we **take** it. Nothing is **given**, Theon."

Anger bubbled in his blood. Defiance, festered in her. He could practically scent it.

She took his birthright. **Seized** it. Stole it. And dared him to **re-claim** it?

"You, bitch!" Theon snapped. Green-eyes bristling.

"Cunt." Theon recognized the smug-smirk cross her lips.

If what she wanted from him was to '**take**' then so he would. Lips collided violently—with hers.

Pinned. Stuck-fast, against the stone-wall. Frustrated-fingers sought out her curves. Edges. Waist-line, hips. Squeezing, kneading the flesh, in quick succession. Ample-muscles were applied to keep her restrained. Teeth gnashed together; tongues entwined as he forced his—past her lips. Heat pooled, spread, conquered every segment of his being.

She struck something in him. Always had. Always would. A chord that bypassed the logical pieces of his mind that screamed how—wrong—possessing her, was.

Currently, Theon was so infused with broiling-rage that he wanted to tear her clothes; to fragments.

Teeth sunk hard, upon his lesser-lip. Iron-cooper taste coated his tongue. He yanked his mouth back.

"Bitch!" Yara licked his blood from her petals. Tasted him. Shrugged. Unphased by his continued use of the word.

"Are you going to cry, about it? Have you gone soft, Baby Brother?" Taunting him—Theon's anger only broiled over. Bubbling. Searing. Screaming for comeuppance. For all the years he spent parted from her. For her disregard for his birthright. Meanwhile, his heart screamed; agonized, for the loss of the gentility, Yara once showed toward him. They never behaved so brashly. Not whilst alone.

Blood-stained fingers retracted from the swollen-lip. He lashed out. Tore her from the rough-stone. Marched her to the bed—Slammed her back upon it. Nimble-fingers tore, shredded dark-colored breeches—Smallclothes. Ripped the jerkin over her head—left her stripped. Bare. Green-eyes feasted on her flesh. Breasts expressly, larger than recalled. Stomach—flat. Having lost the pudge, he used to curl up against. The valley of her pelvis was dusted with coarse dusky-curls. The last time—through sweat, ash, and blood—Theon recalled how smooth—both their pelvises had been.

Sultry-eyes taunted him. "You have me at your mercy. Do not tell me you have gone Northern-soft on me now."

Shooting daggers, through piercing-eyes. Theon ripped off his overcoat, stripped his tunic—and tugged free, tan-breeches. Collapsed onto Yara; low-growls vibrated his throat. "Call me soft, baby or cunt, one more time—And I will—"

"What? What will you do, Baby Brother?" She cut him off. Fierceness in hazel-eyes. And…laughter. Amusement lit her features.

Theon tight-gripped her throat. Squeezed—until her pulse beat right at his fingertips. Rather than give her further, verbal ammunition to hang him with—He thrust.

Deep. Rough. Hard. Penetrated right to her core. Yara made an involuntary gasp—He grunted.

Trembled. Walls gripped him. Tight; imperatively, skilled-hands worked on her. His rough thumb-pad brushed her pearl. Tweaked between index—and thumb. Other hand, groped bountiful-breasts.

"I am not, soft!" Theon bit her skin. Marked her as brutally, as a whore. Left bitemarks. Indentions of crooked-teeth. Gripped in spots, tight enough to bruise. He willed her to carry these marks on her flesh.

"N-No, Not soft. But, still my **baby** brother." Expert, feminine-fingers, coursed through thick sandy-curls. Rushed over the small of his curved-spine. Kneaded into sinews. Theon softened—instinctually.

It had been so **long**—since Yara's touch, donned weathered-flesh. Bone. Muscle.

Thrusts lessened, as he caved to weakness. No woman—knew to touch him so finely. Knew every weak patch on hot, muscled-flesh. Except Yara.

Frenzied moans—turned needful. Effectively, Yara soothed him. Brought him down from a tantrum. Just the way she always had.

"You used to plead for my touch, Baby Brother." Theon whined. Lost in memories; long suppressed.

"Remember? When your cock would pulse for me? Spill on our sheets?" He all-but moaned—Gave impulsive-ruts. Delved deep within her honey-warmed, cunt.

"I never…betrayed you. I love you, Yara."

"You sure I do not **bore** you, Baby Brother."

Theon regretted that statement. Agonized; He whined. "No…You could never…"

All ambition fled—and for this titular moment—it was just **them**. Of old—Nestled close. Seeking comfort. Love. Lust. Satisfaction.

Rough, calloused-fingers, slowed. Eased against her juddering-pearl.

"You would soak my hand in salty-nectar. I would touch you **every** night." Theon shuddered with feeling. Emotions—He fought. Buried, at Winterfell. "I never wanted to **leave** you." Solemnly, Theon inhaled. Drank in her aroma. Sweat, salt, Earth. Still, Yara smelled as he remembered. **Felt**—as he remembered.

Shuddering chills coursed back up his spine. Tantalizing, brushes of rough-fingers traveled along his neck. Grazed sweat-sheen skin. "I know. I remember things, too. How you, hated thunder. I missed you, **cowering** in my bed, whenever thunder, struck." Low, noises gurgled in his throat. Pure unadulterated, bliss worked through his system. He could not recall, ever being gentle with her. Never had they made love—not **slow**—sensual, love.

"You smell the same. How do you still **smell**, as I remember?" Questioning tones huffed from his throat. Vibrated her shoulder, just near her ear.

She chuckled. "I am Iron-Born, Baby Brother. I will **always** smell, of the islands. As will **you**."

Need had built. Close to bursting. His skin afire, from those damned touches. "You are close, you **always** make those little grunts when you are." Whispers tickled the shell of his ear.

Theon's mouth fell agape, grunts more pronounced—He came apart. Spilled deep into her cunt. Felt his seed, pump free; as muscular-biceps **tightened** around her midriff. He clung to her, as though she were his driftwood, in the vast endless, ocean-waves. Hands roamed her skin. Recalled her weakest spaces—and tweaked. Yara's eyes rolled back. Fingers wound through his sweat-soaked curls—and she came around him.

Walls squeezed his length. Lips met with her petals. Belly, swirled in need.

* * *

**_Yara_**

Something in those sea-green eyes was familiar. She felt the tug in her bones, from that first **second**. Their father made her into a perfect son.

Despite her birth gender—He desperately craved an heir. Yara supported him.

Captained his ships. And bore the brunt of Theon's rage for it.

Would she ever set out to betray the flesh—blood—brother that remained to her? Never. Would she call him out on his shenanigans? Without falter.

He behaved the cunt. Whined at her like a giant-baby. Persisted she set out to steal his birthright. Then stormed into their old chambers—as though they still **belonged** to him.

They belonged to **her** now. They were hers—and she would not relinquish that sacred, space back to him.

Not to self-assured Theon.

Theon that cared so little for the impact these years might have had on her, person. Where did kind-hearted, Theon go?

Shocked. When she followed him. Tears wet his cheeks. Brokenness was plastered into his eyes—and he clutched palm-tight to a wooden hunk. Once, might Theon have spurned these emotions—then come for solace in her arms. But—she had offered him no kindness, so why should he come to her, for comfort?

Jealousy swirled in her belly. She imagined all the girls he dehumanized—fucked—and left, behind. Naively, she had been the very first. She taunted him. Jabbed at him, out of spite—scorn. And he pinned her. Strong as ever to that stone-wall.

Until she felt her bones creak under the pressure.

Would he hurt her? Kill her? She could fight back—She **choose** not to.

No—instead she goaded him. Baited him—until she was twisted round on the bedsheets. Stripped of clothes. Roughly kissed. Until—Something came back to her.

Theon always **caved** to her touch.

Explorative fingers sought out his weakest spots. Ignored the allure of each pound in his hips. The bruises; bluntness—manliness. Instead, Yara coaxed him into light, tender, ruts of his hips. Until, his movements were guided by **love**—not need.

Until he came—under the pressure of her cunt. And warm jets of seed pooled inside of her.

She missed him—Missed this.

In her heart of hearts—She **loved** Theon.

Craved him.

Perhaps, part of her—blamed him. For abandoning her. It was irrational—He did not **want** to go; but her spirit still, clung hold of her childhood grudge.

Fingernails spanned his back. Arched up his spine—over the smooth-surface. There were no scars on his sprawling-skin. No battle-scars. Only clean, pink-flesh.

"You are unmarked." Hums imbued from her tone.

Quizzically, Theon's eyelids cracked open. Viewed her through tired, eyes. "Did you think I would be?"

Her shoulders rolled. "Perhaps. You claimed they were savages to you."

From the detail-oriented stories he belayed. She assumed the worst; lashes seared into his skin from the belt—old scars from beatings—**Something**. But there was no trace—no marks to tell the story of his life, after the Iron Islands.

"Not always." Theon wavered. Stretched out like a cat, over the silken-sheets. Rolled from his place atop her—to nestle into her.

Yara still felt the singe of betrayal in her blood. The discontentment for the man he became. From the rough-edge of his jaw (that resembled Rodrik's) to the raging fire, in his eyes. Theon changed.

And not much for the better. Yara felt bitterness towards him. Even as he curled at her side, like a contented kitten. Having taken his fill from her bodice. That bitter sensation wrote into her heart. She did not want to withdraw the leadership, she earned through her own blood, sweat, and tears. The man she missed—was no more. Even if he reacted to her touches; like a lad, starved for affection. Even were he to present, bittersweet words of love. Desire.

He was a man—**Just** a man.

And horny.

So, he lied.

He **had** to be lying.

Deceiving her, with this uncharacteristic kindness. He was not kind, nor thoughtful. Not **anymore**. He did not cave—not so easily. Not to touch—not to a woman's touch. Did he conspire to weaken her? By being a little bit soft? A little like the Theon of old?

She could not help but to wonder.

"Why did you come in here, Brother?" Her tone changed. Skin, suddenly felt tarnished.

Was this a trick? To make her malleable? Did he think her weak? Or foolish? She was neither of those things.

Not after…

But maybe she **was**.

Theon peaked at her; tired cat-like eyes. Head turned at just the proper angle to appear docile. Cute, even. Like when he was a little boy. "I desired to see how our chambers faired the years." Theon yawned. Swallowed thick in his throat—sandy-curls were ruffled. Poking out at odd ends.

Instinct told her to smooth those ruffled curls—Yet, she held back. No longer in the mood to touch him. To play old games with him.

"They are **my** chambers now, Brother. Only mine." Yara felt the need to stake her claim. Draw a line in the sand, of her own. He was slick—charming. Handsome. But she had been fooled before—by those devilish eyes.

A stormy expression crossed his features. Something akin to woundedness. And he shifted away. His arm unwound from her waist.

"Do you wish me to leave?" His voice was rattled. Eyes wounded.

Was this a trick?

"We are not children anymore, Theon. I do not wish to play games. I will not give you my fleet. They are **mine**. I earned them, Brother. And you cannot **charm** me into handing them over to you." Adamantly. She gave a pointed stare.

* * *

**_Theon_**

His heart dropped into his stomach. Did she think that he bedded her, for her fleet? His stomach churned.

Once, Yara had been his world. He would have laid down his life for hers. Shot an arrow into every damned soldier that stormed Pyke's walls, had he believed for an instant she would come out alive.

Now—Now he felt betrayed. Why had he come back?

Theon provided her, his trust. Let his guard down—Let her hands roam, touch, convince him into lowering his defenses. Not to '**take**' but **love**. So, she could chastise him? Belittle him? Had she softened his edges to prove a point?

Humiliated, Theon slid from the silky-soft sheets. Began to tug his discarded clothes on—eagerly. He wanted the shield of clothing. The armor he wore against the world.

"This was a mistake. It will not happen again." His skin grew enflamed. Hot to the touch. He bit back tears.

"You promised me a night to tell the grandkids. You need not go, yet." That taunting smirk gathered on her features. She rolled lazily onto her stomach.

He felt bile rise in his throat. He was sick for wanting her. Of that he knew, indefinitely. But even worse off, for actually believing things could be as they **were**, between them. It was the singular hope, that when he returned to the Iron Islands, Yara would be awaiting him. Arms wide open. Their chambers once more—**theirs**.

Now, he could not believe he was ever so foolish.

Those tender-inviting touches, were just to prove she could still wrap him around her finger. And he had caved. Just as she **planned** for him to.

"You are cruel, Yara? You know that?" Theon's voice wavered. Broke. Did she rejoice in seeing him this way? Hurting?

"We are Iron-Born, Baby Brother. We **thrive** on cruelty."

Theon swallowed the bitter thickness, in his throat. Turned away—and left her chambers.

They were not **his**—Not anymore.

* * *

Theon tried the doorknob. On their brothers' old chambers. Both doors were bolted shut. With padlocks. In, spite—Theon wondered where he was meant to lay his head. Rodrik's chambers were meant to belong to the heir.

He assumed, now, they **should** be his.

Instead of seeking out a guard for help, Theon headed down echoing-halls. Clear to what was once, his mother's chamber door.

With bittersweet, relief he felt the hinges creek. A thick layer of dust had settled over her various possessions—but it was otherwise, untouched. Perfume bottles. Tinctures. Dresses.

All of which, still carried her presence—**Memory**.

Theon felt bleak. Crushed. His skin ached with expenditure. Months out in the filth, and mud of the North with Robb, had taken its toll. Granted permission to return home, Theon had had the first bit of joy since Ned's death. Ever since—there was heartache. Pain. Naively, Theon had believed this would be easy. A **joyous** homecoming. A reunion with Yara.

His father.

Finally, able to claim his rightful place as Balon's only living heir. Except, Yara wanted the claim for her own. Sought to **destroy** him for it. Mentally decimate—manipulate him—if she had to.

He never thought, Yara would sink to such lows, to secure **his** birthright.

Why did the Gods have to take **everything** from him?

Ned was a second father—A superior father to Balon—He was gone. He could not deliver the promised troops to Robb—and Now—Now, even Yara turned her back on him.

What had he left?

Open-wounds, that could never heal.

Theon settled on the dust-covered layers of what was once, his mother's sleeping place. Once, her arms had been as comforting as Yara's. If she were here…Would she still **want** to hold him?

Would she still even **trust** him?

Yara humiliated him. Found a way to soothe him, only to cruelly snatch it back away. Like a toy—like a **game**. He felt like a child—again. Like a scolded little boy.

For which crime did she condemn him? His birthright? As a Greyjoy? His loyalty to Robb Stark? Or was it, the comfort he sought, in whores, and women?

Theon slid underneath the woolen covers. Spoke soft, tired words to the dead. Could his mother hear? Did she care?

Tears over-spilled. Flowed down reddened-cheeks.

Yara's bed had been a comfort—until she made those accusations. Now; there was no further comfort for him there.

Theon cried until; his tears ran dry. Until, the storm—took-hold—raged outside. Until thunder crashed. Lightening erased shadow. Until he trembled with the same fears, he had as a child. Of thunder—of lightening. Of **chaos**. And he wished for the light. His light.

But Yara, did not **want** him. No one here, **wanted** him.

With those thoughts—Theon **drowned** in sleep.

* * *

**_Yara_**

She had watched him leave. Witnessed the sad, sulk of broad-shoulders. Felt the twist of her belly—something told her-She was wrong.

Wrong for her belief in Theon's ultimate treachery.

Had she been?

His eyes had turned sullen. His step—less cocky—and his shoulders—hunched. Something faded in him.

What had her paranoia done?

She offered him a chance to stay; it was not meant to be cruel—not as he took it—yet; her response was guarded.

How could she hand over her heart? She had done that as a naïve little girl. She was **not** little—and she was **not** naïve. Not anymore.

These chambers would always be lonelier without him. They had been, ever since that first night.

When she felt his presence leave—And he never returned.

He awoke this vulnerability in her. Yara despised it—Despised being vulnerable.

Especially, when Theon's new cocky ways—were unpredictable.

Hours passed. Lightening. Thunder. Woke her from her sleep.

No peace came from those dreams. Only guilt. Guilt for her behavior towards Theon. It was their first time, since—their last. She could have been kinder. Held him longer. Their father instilled paranoia in her. Fear that someone would 'take' from her. But Theon was not just anyone.

When had he ever harmed her before?

He could have snapped her wrist, earlier. Could have become Maron, in doing so…and yet, He released her.

Behind closed eyes—She could still see him; clear as day—Iron-clad armor. Bow-in-hand. Ready to defend her. Safeguard her—at the cost of his own life.

Yara slid from underneath the covers. Slipped on a plain, nightgown—And searched.

She had a hunch as to where he was—Where he always had gone, when **that** look crossed his features. When he was wounded.

Yara had never braved the archway of this particular, chamber door.

Not since, **before** Pyke fell.

Yara pushed against the wood. Felt the hinges vibrate under calloused-fingertips. Listened to the squeal of protest from the very door. But—it opened.

Sure enough, curled into a tight ball, trembling underneath dusty-covers—was Theon.

She clicked the wooden door closed behind her. Crawled upon the bedclothes. Slid underneath, alongside him. How could she apologize?

Tears dried on his cheeks. Fitfully, Theon slept. She saw him shake. Tremble. Writhe.

She drew in near. Encompassed warm, comforting-fingers underneath the hem of his tunic.

Rubbed pulsing-little circles, into the small of his back. Theon shuddered—but did not wake. His skin flexed, back arched. His nose sniffled.

"Y-Yara…" She checked his eyes—teardrops fell anew—but still he slumbered.

Stomach churned in regret. Why had she said those things?

All bitterness fell away. Yara lowered onto her side, faced toward him. Drew near.

"I am here, Baby Brother." Theon nuzzled close, like a lost puppy. His skin shivered underneath her touch. She kneaded patterns into his back. Touched round to his front. Up his abdomen, over his peck—across bicep.

"Mum…" Breath caught in Yara's throat. Tears collected in the rims of her eyes.

It was her turn to shiver.

"Oh, Theon…" Yara hummed, kissed the side of his cheek. Dragged loving fingers into his curls. How she missed his curls.

Theon nudged his nose into the cusp of her neck. Drank her in. Curved his arms around her middle. Yara let him draw her into the crushing embrace.

And with that—Theon awoke.

Sleepy, eyes landed on hers. Nothing, formidable laid inside of them. Theon appeared defeated.

"Yara…Why have you come here?"

She deserved the bitterness to his tone.

"I apologize, Brother. I was afraid…"

"Afraid of what?" Sleepiness still consumed his vision.

"You have no idea what this took from me, last time, Baby Brother." Hesitantly, Yara's thumb brushed rough-stubble.

Theon huffed out a heaving-breath. Rubbed bare-hands, up and down her spine in gestures of comfort.

"Took from you?" Curious, little words escaped.

Yara blinked back tears. She never told a soul—not even their father knew.

"Perhaps one day I shall tell you, for now. Just sleep. You need it. We sail, tomorrow." Her in one direction—Him in another.

They would part again—and the sweetness of the moment could only be ruined, by tales of times past.

"I love you, Yara…" Sleepy tones sought reassurance.

"I love you too, Baby Brother. With that—They drifted to sleep, curled in each other's embrace.

* * *

**_Theon_**

When dawn-light had streamed through—open curtains; Theon had been alone.

No traces of any other being alongside of him. Belief that he dreamed of her—Yara—set in.

He had willed her to him. It would not have been the **first** time.

Yara was unforgiving. Tough—**Bold**. She would **not** have come to him.

Having rubbed sleep from dreary-eyes, he had decided to stand-tall. Back, straight. Refused to show that what she said—or did—had any effect on him.

Weakness, made him malleable in eager-fingers. And Theon could not look weak again. Never let down his guard. Not to Yara—nor anyone.

Were he to command respect over the sole ship, their father provided him—He need only demand it.

Once the initial humiliation cleared away, his usual cockiness, returned.

Baptized anew, under the Drowned God's protection. Theon felt invigorated. Fresh. Clean.

Old sins washed clean. Including those with Yara; cemented his destiny.

He would retain control of the Iron Islands. He would become heir. Whether, Yara permitted him to, or not.

He was Iron-Born. He would **take** it from her. Same as he Paid the Iron Price for her tight-bodice, as a lad. He would **take**.

She seduced him; left him humiliated. To prove she could. Orchestrated his frustrations into sexual reaction—like when they were young.

No more.

He would not **claim** her bodice again. He vowed it as he stood; salt-drying in thick-curls. The sea filling his senses.

"You look well, Baby Brother."

Nerves grated underneath thick-skin. Theon's eyes slatted, "What do **you** want?" Bitterly, Theon effectively slammed defensive walls down, around himself.

He no longer trusted her intentions.

Seemingly—taken aback—Yara's shoulders squared, "Only came to see you off." Her tone changed.

"Yea? Well you should not have bothered. I can man my own ship. Or do you conspire to strip me of this single ship of my own?" Boastfulness, surrounded Theon.

He put up a front—for Yara's benefit.

"Considering you have a pittance crew, and our slowest ship, no Brother, I do not seek to take it from you, in fact, you can have it all to yourself." Yara's eyes glinted with humor. "Father trusted me to **take** the North. Whilst you, are only set to go on meager raids. But you shall have all the whores, and salt-wives you can manage to grab hold of—If you have the balls to take them, that is."

Theon was red-faced by the end of her spiel. Only able to gawk, dumbly as she stormed from view.

Whatever was left of his heart—fell to pieces, right there.

* * *

**_Theon_**

Winterfell. Frigid cold—Air flecked with snow.

And meant, as a second **home** to Theon.

Taking the castle—had been simple. Holding it long-term?

Would prove to be difficult. With Bran, and Rickon in the wind—The knowledge he would be a laughing stock to the rest of Westeros, was not lost on Theon.

Every wicked deed—the betrayal of Robb—The essence of his split soul; all accomplished in the name of his father.

To gain approval from the bitter man.

To prove his deserving of the Iron Islands. Could any speak out against his bravery, now?

His cunning?

So long as he could garner a show of strength—He might **yet**, stand a chance.

It was not an easy decision. Theon knew by the sea-green of the temperamental-lad's eyes; that the youngest farm boy—was **his** bastard. Curly-mop of sandy-brown hair. Toothy-crooked smile. How could he not, know? To run a dagger through his own kin? It stole something from him. A sliver of his humanity.

Lost forever.

Wailing-shrieks of the Farmer's wife (once his bed-companion) would forever haunt his dreams. As serrated-dagger edge, slit her throat. That woman granted kindness—comfort—to a lonesome, suffering-lad. Thousands of miles from home. And paid with her sons' lives.

Burned; stinking corpses hung upon the stone-walls. On display—as a reminder. Seared—stung into his memory.

Jack. Little **Jack**.

Barely past his fourth name day.

Theon drank until the buzz took over his mind; upon that night. Bitter-numbness. Was all that could be felt. Numbness—Illusions. Ser Rodrik was another, of Theon's losses. If the man had merely surrendered. Rather than bad-mouth him before his soldiers—there would have been no need to behead him, before a crowd. The swords-edge; unable to pierce-clean through flesh.

Another bitter regret.

Yara came, when called. Submerged on Winterfell with meager support. How could he hold this place? Keep Winterfell his? Without her support?

He watched. Angered. As she drank her fill—scoffed at his choices to her men. Made him pink in the face. Humiliated—anew. Was there no respect he could gain? From anyone? How much more could he give? Blood. Soul. Heart.

Theon ached for acceptance. Even **Yara's** would do.

Having dismissed her men—Loyal only to her commands—It was just them.

Alone. In the shadow of the hall.

If only he no longer sought attraction in those sublime-curves. If only her touch—could not awaken his warm-blooded veins. He vowed—**vowed**—not to let this transpire. Not to **want** her. Need her—To **survive**.

His prick kept betraying his mind—His **pride**.

Stood before her. Jaw-set. Eyes narrowed.

Why must she do this? Deny him what was owed?

"What game do you play at? Sister?" Spat in seeming-dislike. Theon's blood-boiled.

"I play at no games, Baby Brother. Father desires you home. You took Winterfell—now come, home. The Iron-Born have no need for it, long-term." Dancing-fingers crept over his peck. Caused iron-blood to sing. Demand. Lust.

"I took Winterfell! Felled its people. Slayed their war-leader. What more will it take to prove I have no **care** for this place?" Even through cold-stained words—Theon's belly roared with the weight of these betrayals.

Flickers. Changes in hazel-optics; were noted in chaotic sea-green. She softened. Superior tone diminished. "Your blood runs with mine. You were born in salt, and iron. You should die there, as well. I would not see you die so far from the sea, Baby Brother." Warm-pad of her thumb grazed rough-stubble. Body worn from nights of stale-bread washed down with bitter-ale, from his regrets. Theon felt lost. Wavering in plain sight.

She could bend him—He would **break**.

Skin was only flesh. Bone—could shatter. And those tones.

Saddened by years apart. Oceans of differences that now separated their hearts from beating as they once did—as **one**.

Theon felt the crushing weight of this moment.

It squeezed him. Pleaded for him to promise—To depart by her side.

**Pride** stood in the way. Need to prove self-worth—tore at him.

Was it the ale that clouded him? Steered his senses aghast? "I burn for you, Yara. I did not bed you, for command of your fleet." Whispers tore from his throat. Muscles trembled—skin flamed.

Recognition lit stormy-eyes. "I know, Baby Brother. I **always** knew."

Hollowness echoed throughout the hall. Alone. Something clawed at his inner-belly. This would be his **last** chance. No other would come. His stand would be made. If his blood spilled—It would spill in Winterfell. So then, he may never view the flesh-blood silhouette of his sister, again.

Never take command of her. Never **love** her. Again.

Adrenaline took charge. Rang in his ears. Pulse. Heart. Blood.

Pumped through his veins—infused him with courage.

Pleading from his eyes—Skin wore thin. This could be goodbye—until they met beneath sea-waves of their Drowned God.

Lips collided; hands clutched for a grip on something—anything. Hers through grease-soaked curls, him—straight, shoulder-length tresses. Past transgressions—no longer mattered. This moment would **never** be one to regret.

"Yara…" it could have been the plea from the little-boy he was. Or the man—that grew in his stead. All the sins had piled on. Encroached on precious sanity. Skirted the very make-up of his mind.

Each detrimental—to his own forgiveness. Burned his kin—Sealed his fate as Stark-enemy. He would not have this last moment with Yara—be his **final** regret.

Unable to bite back the roar of blood. Bodily demand for penance—muscled-arms swept her up. Carried her to familiar bedchambers. His sanctuary for the encompass of time as ward of Winterfell. Now—would be **theirs**. If only for a night.

Unprepared to wait—their eyes met as clothes tore from their respective skins. He would feel her—**all** of her, tonight. No barriers. Shields. Walls.

It was unspoken. **Understood**.

Skin paired together. Perfectly. Walls stretched to accommodate his girth—as he took his home—inside of her. High-pitched whines felled her lips. Theon learned a thing, or two from Northern whores. Searched out the ultimate pleasure. Powerful-arms scooped her up—green-eyes sought her trust; found it burned into her eyes. Without further acknowledgment, Theon turned her upon her knees. Cupped her ass; arched his back to push the length of himself—**deep**—inside. Iron-Born men were rough. Callous creatures. His love, had always been—rough; not slow. Like when he collapsed-apart in her arms, upon their reunion.

If this was goodbye; He willed her to remember the steel-coarseness in his blood. The iron-grip of his love. Not just the soft-meld of his boyhood-weakness. But, the formidable-strength as a warm-blooded man, as well. Each pound of drenched-flesh—tore a scream from her throat. Rough-hands snaked around her middle. Thumb scraped along her gash—found the nub he sought. Pinched. Rolled. Squeezed. Until she shuddered—and came apart in his arms.

"I am Iron, Yara—and salt—steel—sea. I am part of you, and you are part of me—Iron-blood runs through each of our veins. Whether I die here, am swallowed by sea-waves, or at home in my bed. I am still Iron-born. **Still** your brother." Each thrust, pounded in from behind. Every moan—gasp of breath—whimper from pink-lips—surged underneath his skin. Seared down to his belly—through his soul. He meant it. He meant every **word** of it.

She was his vulnerability—Single-most, Weakness. Rampant-desire.

His **everything**.

Only, when rolling-shudders ceased—and gasped-breaths died down—did he let go. Another steel-clad rut—made him spill. Salty-essence layered her tunnel. Burned, within her.

Shaky-fingers grazed above nectar-drowned lower-pleats. Brushed over her valley—twirled circles in sweat-immersed, coarse-hair. "I dreamed you would be a woman—when I would have you in my Winterfell chambers. I dreamed it, Sister. Every night—since the first." Hot-breath tickled her ear-lobe. Crooked-teeth nipped down playfully.

Far from sated, Theon lowered her upon her back. Hovered over her. Balanced on toned-arms. Lazily, his prick hung down. Grazed. Tickled, as it dangled between her abdomen, furred-pelvis.

Fingers reached—twined, round the swollen-pink of his need. "And you are a man, Baby Brother." She squeezed—Theon jolted. Sensitivity-flowed; especially raw, there.

Flinching, legs-shook. Clearly, unintending to cause discomfort, deft-fingers released their grip. Skirted over thickness of, coarse-curls which mirrored hers, there. Then, fell away. Back to silken-sheets.

Face reddened, hair, thoroughly-unkempt—Yara gasped for breath, underneath him. Sucked in leaps of air. Theon watched her breasts heave up—and down. Nipples pink—taut. The devil in his eye—He lowered to her breast. Tongue swiped the swollen button. Earned a moan in recompense.

Theon played with her.

Awaited his rejuvenation of body. In tender ease. Thighs parted in welcome—Theon dipped his tongue between sopping-folds. Sucked shared-juices from her skin. Kissed her pearl—from where it peaked-distended out of its hood. She shuddered.

Leisurely, trails were kissed back up her front. Until their lips met, anew. Legs wound, round his waist—Locked at his hip-bones. Fingers lifted to twine in his curls. Just where they belonged. Skirted down the length of well-toned muscles upon his back. She made him squirrely. Sins blended, coiled—in his mind. Thickness surged in the air—as their tongues tangled. When they broke apart for air; her hand cupped his throat. Thumb brushed the pronounced bulge, of his Adam's apple.

"I remember the night you were born; did you know that?" Even tones came from breathless vocals.

Hazy-eyes penetrated hers, "You do?" Interest piqued. Theon tilted his head to the left, grazed her palm with a kiss.

"Mhm. It was a hard labor, for our mother. She almost died to birth you, into our world. I was only three—I should not have been there, but I insisted. I wanted to watch. And when they pulled you, screaming from our mother, they let me hold you. I was first to truly hold you. I wrapped you in a blanket, let you suckle on my finger. You were afraid—" She paused, eyes growing fuzzy as though recalling the moment from somewhere, afar. "—There were crashes of thunder, and lightening, that night. I suppose it should be fitting that an ill-tempered baby, be birthed on an ill-mannered eve." Theon flushed—he had been regaled with more than one tale of his ill-tempered mannerisms in babyhood.

"You were so small. I knew you were small, because you did not dwarf my arms. You fit perfectly. We thought you would die. You were so sick those first nights. Even your cries were faint, at first. Our brothers put you in my room. They figured we were youngest, so we were each other's problem. If you ever screamed, I would need only touch you—" Soft-grazes trailed up his throat, over his chin—across his cheek to wind up in thick-curls. "—And you would stop." Chills raced up his spine, little spirals of need turned in his abdomen. Firmness grew—where he rested just upon her apex.

Yara's smile widened, "No one else's touch, could do that. Only mine. And I suspected then—"

"Suspected what?" Heightened breath, caught in his throat.

Slow, sensual circles were made with her locked hips. Causing hitched little breaths to come in pants—then whines from his arced-throat.

Yara ignored his question, "Then, when you grew older, and came to my bed when the thunder, and lightening would scare you. Those same touches would calm you. Only my touches—" Those hips continued to circularly-weave. Weakening his resolve, "—would sate you. I still gave you touch, even when you were too old for comfort in my bed. It was not until that night, you reacted, as you do now—little prick hard in your nightie-that I knew."

"Knew, w-what?" Stuttered words came forth. Mind so hazy—so grainy. He could no longer work his way out to the other side.

Suddenly, her thigh hitched—Jerked—and his body-weight, was used against him. Suddenly, on his back, prick that had been aligned at her entrance—now buried deep up-inside her cunt.

Shockwaves, bolted through his nerves. Pinched. Seared. Screamed. Ripped a moan of ecstasy from his throat. Yara bent down, hands balanced on his pecks. Mouth hovered near his ear. "You were mine." Without let-up, powerful-hips began to work against him. Slammed his cock in, and out. Rode him until, his sensitive need was throbbing—spilling inside of her in mere seconds. Balls emptied a second time. No woman could make him cum like that. Not even a whore.

"Yara!" He whined her name—but she gave no quarter.

"I know you have more that that, Baby Brother. You have Iron in your blood. Shall we empty your balls? Has a woman ever done that for you? Emptied you?" White-blistering hot, seared behind his eyes. All senses dissipated—as sensitivity made him lose himself—to her. She was right. Wherever his feet may fall—wherever his cock might stray—She was his home.

He belonged to her.

She learned roughness of her own—how to take—like he would from her bodice. He was alight with bursts of color. Lost count of how many times she milked him with her thighs. He succumbed to the salt in her blood. Tears wet his cheeks from sensitivity.

Only when she shuddered—came on top of him—did she finally cease to ride him.

Spent—barely conscious—Theon reached for her. Instinctively.

Yara was warmth. Love. Comfort.

He had need of her. To be held, after she rode him into oblivion. He could have been that five-year-old boy again. Scared of thunder. Lightening. Might have been seven. Woken by need. Pulses underneath fabric—that drew him to her. Maybe ten—when their mother died—and he just needed her arms. Maybe there was no then—and now. Only being. Only Yara.

Balls tight against his scrotum, prick swollen—even whilst flaccid—Theon would feel what she did; for days.

* * *

Sleep must have taken him. How long?

Darkness engulfed his bedchambers. Not even moonlight came in through woven-curtains.

Frantically—still blind from sleep—Theon sought out warmth. Arms. Love.

Found her.

Right where he left her.

"Ya…aa…?" Sometimes. In his weakest moments—words blended. 'R's did not pronounce themselves. And her name came out twisted.

"Baby Brother…" Fingers brushed through floppy-curls.

With a content sigh, arms moved. Skin was smooth, under grasping-fingers. Still bared. Completely.

His chambers reeked of their sex, salt—sin. Engulfed his senses. Flooded his mind. Yet, still, he felt good. He willed her to stay—forever.

"Stay with me…" Grumbles emerged.

The waking world would not still come into focus. His foggy mind was trapped somewhere between the two. Sated. Pleasured. Blissful. This is where he wanted to stay—always. Forever.

"I cannot, I must go soon, Baby Brother. My men await me."

A huff blew out. Arm tightened around her middle. "I await you. **Here**. By **my** side…" Eyes peeked open in slits. He rubbed sleep from his eyes.

Yara giggled. Such a **pure** sound.

Theon felt the slide of her. Nestle. Shift. Push. Right up against his frame. Nudged by her nose, he felt her steal a kiss. Lips were swollen red, from their **before**, kisses. With a shift, his weighted balls—still ached. Phallus sensitive, more than usual.

Fingers wound around the swell of him. Gave a few soft tugs. Theon groaned into her mouth. "Do you have one more in you, Baby Brother?"

Little-chuckles parted his vocal cords. "I have to piss; I cannot get hard." Twinges from his full bladder, reminded him of the abundance of ale he choked back—prior to their tussle. Now, it had caught up to him. He was beginning to realize his aching bladder is what woke him in the first place.

"Mmm. Empty it then." His prick gave a little throb, as she released the flesh.

Theon chuckled, "Fine, fine…" Stretching his arms, and legs. He arched his back; felt the bone creak in contentment. With slow precision, he inched from underneath the rabbit-furs. Heard the scrape of the chamber-pot as it dragged across stone. Then, sighed in relief as he released the stream into the pot.

Green-eyes peered open to notice hazel-optics staring.

"You like watching me piss?" Taunting-tones emerged.

Yara smiled, "Nothing I have not seen countless times before. I changed your diapers when you wet and messed them as a babe. You once coated me in your urine when I changed you. I do not shy from your piss, Baby Brother."

Cheeks, darkened as his stream ceased. She never told him about that, before. Clamoring to put the chamber pot back away, Theon, suddenly recalled something.

Silently, Theon padded to the trunk at the end of his bed. Rifled through. Until silky-soft texture met his fingertips. Straightening up. Theon settled on the edge of his bed. Extended toward her, was the bear-fur blanket. Catelyn stitched it together at his behest. Brown fur, had covered the bear's thick-coat. It was silky-smooth underneath one's fingertips. "I pierced the bear with my own arrow. Skinned it myself—Catelyn helped me stitch it together, years ago. I was so proud of myself, that day. It was the very first time I hunted, out beyond Winterfell's walls. I thought of you. How excited you would have been to see it. And I saved it to give to you. I always hoped I might present it to you, when we came together again."

Shock, speechlessness was written over her face. "T-Theon…"

Would she despise it? Part of him ached to think she would. It was a very Northern-soft gift, after all. Furs were a rarity in the Iron-Islands.

To his astonishment, tears-twinkled in her eyes.

"It is beautiful. Stunning. I will cherish it."

Sudden, sadness engulfed him. As he recalled—they might very well, never see one another again. This could be their last night.

There were no words to solidify, the weight of what this parting gift, meant—between them.

Calloused-fingers smoothed over the downy-soft fur, for just a moment. Prior to setting the fur aside, and winding her arms around his neck. Nearly thrown off balance, Theon enveloped her in his hold. Steadied, then lowered them both, onto the sheets.

Their lips connected, and he sank into the soft, graze of her touches. Remanded each of her sounds to memory. Willed his heart to remain in this single moment, between them. His thoroughly ravaged prick already began to re-fill with blood. She need only open her thighs for him to find his way home—and she did.

* * *

**_Yara_**

There were nights spent in other individuals' arms. **Countless**, nights. Most induced with ale—and treachery. After thieving a port—or sailing the seas for days, and nights. Some with her own men, on her crew. All those nights amounted to nothing—when compared with this one.

She would never forget how he kissed her. Memorized her skin in perfect, sultry precision.

Found home in her cunt. Licked, and devoured her, every which way.

It was bliss. He was bliss—and she longed to stay here. Right here.

With him.

But their home called to her. The sea, her ships. And she could not abandon them. Even if it meant she might have to leave a piece of her soul back **here**—in Winterfell.

She gave him her trust—and he gave her his everything. Not a space on her bodice remained untouched—**unloved** by him.

The bear-fur blanket, killed with **his** bow. By **his** hand—melted whatever remained of her stern-walls. If the past were to repeat—she would greet it without thought. To know he kept that blanket for her—all these years—reminded her of what she knew instinctually, once.

Theon was where her heart belonged. Only he could shape her mannish, impertinent nature, into soft, squishy-goo.

When he slid with ease inside of her hot-drenched cunt. Her head fell back to reveal her neck. She felt him take **advantage**. Open-mouth found the curve of her neck-column. She allotted him full-throttle control. But he did not take; he gave. Gentle—**lustful**—snatches of his soul.

"I love you, Theon." Words barely emerged to whisper in his ear.

A low hum came forth from his rattling vocals— "I love you too, Ya-aa…" In the throes of passion; she heard her name the same as when he woke. Same fumbled tones as when he was three—and learning to **navigate** his speech impediment.

Tears wet her eyes—and she exploded in bliss, when his thumb found **that** spot, between her thighs.

* * *

**_Theon_**

This was **bliss**.

He came inside of her—two, small, rivulets of seed shot from depleted-balls. Still, even with **nothing** left, his body still attempted to give to hers. Mostly, he had a dry-cum. Jolts of pleasure ignited in resounding precipice throughout every ligament.

Twitches brought on by overstimulation, ensued. Skin tripled in sensitivity. Eyes rolled back—and he gave a final little shudder.

Her fingers rubbed his back. Grazed his spine, effectively tickled his skin. Another twitch, then a moaned-laugh. "Too…**sensitive**…"

Her fingers stilled.

Their sweat mingled, scent of sex, thick in the air. Breathing evened out—with time.

Theon neared sleep—was just about to fall…

"I must leave." Yanked back from the precipice of the seven-heavens—Theon whined. Enraptured her in his arms. Squeezed tight so that she might fuse into a single being with him.

"Stay…"

"I cannot. I must go. And you should come with me." Hopefulness sparked in her tone.

"I must stay." Pride won. Pride always won—though no longer to prove a **thing** to, Yara. No. This was for their **father's** benefit.

"I will not stray—never again—I will take no salt-wives. There will only be you, Yara. I vow it. A thousand girls could not sate me as you have." He concurred, contentment swirling.

"You are a man now. No longer a boy, I will hold you to your word, Baby Brother."

"And you have it. I have given my word, and all my body had left to give—to you."

Yara's reach descended down, enclosed around his ball-sac. Theon made a noise deeply rumbled in his throat.

"Your balls better be full, blue, and aching when I see you next, Baby Brother." As she squeezed; he bucked-Withered.

"They will be…Gods, they will ache like the seven-hells if I am long parted from you."

She smirked, "Good. It will remind you to hurry back to me."

He could only moan a response as she finally releases her hold, on the rough-abused things.

Suddenly, her tone shifted.

"Stay alive, Theon. I will never forgive you, if you do not come home to me. **Alive**." Their eyes met—and Theon knew she meant it. With every bone in her body—she **meant** it.

Theon connected their lips. "I have no intention of **dying** here." He vowed. Fingers swirled around her spine. Comfort balanced between them.

* * *

_Blurriness came—as the memory faded. His balls did ache—Gods they ached._

_And he did not die—but he would wish for death._

_Gods he wished for it often—completely._

_In every shredded piece of his battered soul._


	3. Eradication of all there was Before

**_ This took so incredibly long to finish! I cannot tell you how many nights I spent banging my head against my keyboard to write this monstrous final part, and the Epilogue (part four). But I finished it! I am writing this as a pre-read, warning that this part is not for the faint of heart. I delved into horrific detail of Ramsay's torture of Theon, and all he endures in order to be some semblance of a person again thereafter. It is highly unpleasant, and I did not shy away from the raw, gory details that most people do. I decided to seek a different approach, rather than just have him return to Yara damaged, I wanted to show at least some of the torture that brought him to this point. So that it would be more than just the result of these injuries, but what broke in him to bring him to this. So without further ado, I hope you enjoy the final two parts of Theon, and Yara's journey._**

* * *

**_Part 3; Eradication of all there was Before._**

* * *

_My body is broken beyond_

_repair. Poison seeping through_

_cracks I bear._

_Morphing into the words_

_they burn._

_Every heart that shows concern._

* * *

**_Theon_**

How many days had it been since light was last seen? Months? Weeks? Years?

Time was infinite here.

Dangled. Stripped. Dehumanized.

He lost a toe, yesterday—or was that two nights ago?

It ached—the singe of cauterization—burned.

Pinkie finger missing—index…middle on the other hand.

Was he even alive anymore? When eyes closed—Yara—was all he could see.

Beckoning—pleading.

'_come with me._'

'_do not die here._'

Oh, how he wished to come—How he wished he had heeded her warning.

Desire bubbled. Turned. Stung.

That last silly vow he made. There were no women—not **here**. No temptation. No lusts. Just Ramsay. Sick. Cruel. Savage—Ramsay.

And sounds of his own spiteful cries. Hatred. For his own rank form.

* * *

More time elapsed.

Crack of bone—as metal drilled through the top of his foot.

Screams only excited Ramsay.

Oh, and he got those screams.

Screams until Theon's voice was hoarse. Raw.

Cries for mercy. Pleas—He just longed to be set free.

Hung limply from the wooden-saltire at this point. Skin burned underneath stagnant clothes. Touch sent him off the rails.

When he faded again—he pleaded for death.

If only death had come…

* * *

Light creaks awoke him. Thoughts of home—of Yara—were abundant.

She came to him—in his dreams. Held him—rubbed fingers calloused from ship-rope over his bruised—cracked skin.

Whimpers came in short little bursts. Sobs soon thereafter.

Reminiscences of being a little boy, safe—sound in her arms again comforted Theon. Gave life to his broken spirit. Touch grazed over his spine, stomach, abdomen. Everywhere.

Theon whined.

"Ya—aa…" Hums emitted from low in his throat. Somewhere far-off—He wondered if she was thinking about him.

What he would not give for just one of her touches—Oh, but then it all felt so real.

Tears had dried on pale-cheeks. Sweat cooled—salt remained. The grind of a warm cunt on the bulge of his manhood—felt **real**.

Theon gave little whines—almost came from such pleasures. Hardened, despite himself.

But these feminine touches were soft—**too** soft for his Yara. Too good—for her hands were too calloused to be **so** soft.

Dry-eyes cracked open. Haziness spun his head around. The saltire was across the room—Who brought him down? Laid him on this wooden settee?

Skin burned—Theon moaned.

Would Yara be upset if he took just a little pleasure? To counteract such brutalization? Such agony?

It was not her—The scent was too sickly for Yara. Attempting to resist was nearly impossible, now. Theon heard coos from those feminine pink-lips. Whispers of his cock's indisputable size. Garnered him little bits of the boastfulness, he had retained as an Iron-Born.

Words melded together—Theon's mind was addled. Pulsing with memory.

Oh—and he was close to losing it. His seed boiled in the depths of his balls—They were most-likely blue; by now. Just as Yara asked them to be.

Suddenly, the warm cunt was gone. Ramsay's smirking features came into view.

Theon, tried to flee. Rolled onto hard-stone. Dragged his broken—battered-form uselessly. Scraped across, the tough surface.

Blubbering—Theon pleaded. This one mercy—**one**.

Could he not retain one bit of dignity?

But he was held by firm-vicious hands. Castle guards in long cloaks.

Filthy breeches unlaced with restrained, calm-precision—words blubbered—unintelligible.

Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

Ramsay showed no mercy—no **care**.

Once, that thick-hardness of his legendary cock was exposed. Ramsay set to work.

Hacked. Sliced. Sawed. Until Theon screamed in unimaginable-agony. All hope for survival—dissipated. Blood gushed as his part fell away. Urine spilled. Stinging the raw, open-wound.

But Theon could not prevent it.

Wet sloshing sounds resounded. Departed flesh hit the stone—discarded near his face.

Drenched in blood—urine. The still erect, flesh of his once, proud, manhood.

Screams pierced the air until he lost his voice. Blackness plunged in on him.

Only to be ripped back to consciousness by white-hot burns down **there**. Ramsay was speaking. Taunting. Eyes focused, intent. But Theon could only groan—in dry cracks of what remained of his vocals.

His favorite '_toy'_ was taken away.

The sting of burning was so severe—stench of seared flesh—the mercy of unconsciousness overtook him.

* * *

Yara. Warm. Soft, moist Yara.

Encapsulated by sheer warmth, Theon's dreams circulated in kind. Tender, brushed touches. Whispers in the shell of his ear.

'_I'll love you always, Baby Brother—always…_'

'_Come home to me. Do not die here._'

Same dwindling words. Coupled with light-grazed touches. Oh, he would give his life to feel her touch. Hear her comfort him.

So long as she never saw—never looked—at what mangled pieces of him were left.

Never.

He could not bear the shame. Guilt. Horror.

Distantly, he could almost hear her laugh. Thought of that laugh when she found out that he was no longer a man…No longer anything.

Awakened; in tears.

Unbelievable hurt encompassed his breeches. Stained with urine—and crimson-blood—Theon hung limp. Arm muscles burdened by his weight—screamed for relief.

Shoulders were sore. Achy. As was the rest of him.

Had pain awoken him? Haziness?

Days it had been since Ramsay fed him. Watered him.

Throat parched; stomach growling—He strained. Yearned for food.

Wetness drenched down his breeches. Acrid-piss fouled the air.

No warning—It just happened.

Redness-blotted Theon's cheeks—any humanity he had left was robbed from him. Humility did not begin to describe, what he felt.

* * *

"_Reek_. Your name is **Reek**."

Words came to him—drew him out of the endless abyss between unconsciousness—and wakefulness.

No—He was an Iron-Born. Theon.

Theon…

"You stink of piss, shit, and vomit. You **reek**. Reek."

Had he thrown up? Theon could not recall—but the stench was in the air. No one released him from the saltire. Not Ramsay—not the guards. Not the pretty females that still came to rub on him, despite his lack of presence **there**.

Urine fell as it would. Dribbled—Sometimes with warning—sometimes with none.

Soaked into fabric—as did his mess.

No one let him down. **Ever**.

Ramsay fed him—**sometimes**. Watered him—**sometimes**.

When the fancy struck. When he was almost dead from starvation—or dehydration.

Hope fled from him—What was the point of being saved now?

The mangled bits between his thighs had nearly healed. All he felt was the throbbing ache of what had been there before. Phantom urges. Swollen; his ball-sac, hung—full, and thick with seed.

Theon drifted—Ramsay spoke—He wanted to return to sleep.

Dreams of Yara. Beautiful. Courageous. Yara.

Suddenly, Ramsay was cutting—hacking at tattered breeches. Skin paled. Eyes-bulged. Pleaded. He did not **want** to see—could **not** see what was down there.

"P-Please…M-Mercy…"

"What have I said about **please**, Reek?"

"T-Theon." Dared to correct Ramsay—He **dared**.

A swift punch to his jaw, silenced him.

His name was all that Theon retained. Nothing else—was left.

Fully on display. Red-swollen balls hung, untouched. Just up-above, pink-singed flesh, stained over where his thick, proud-cock had hung. Bubbled scars mangled the area. From where flesh-singed as carefully, Ramsay had cauterized over blood. His urethra made a small-gaping hole, where his cock once attached. A slight bunch of nerves were bundled near the top of the scar layers.

Ramsay's smile revealed his satisfaction, as to how it turned out.

"P-Please…" A single word, departed, parched-lips.

"Again, with **that** word, Reek." Theon felt his curls gripped. Head lifted—forced to stare within the eyes of a monster.

"Are you thirsty, Reek? Hm?" Despair spread across rough-cheeks.

Theon witnessed sadism spread across Ramsay's features.

Thirst did not begin to describe what Theon felt—Throat so dry it was on fire.

He whined.

Ramsay leaned over, lifted a previously unnoticed (to Theon) funnel, off the stone-floor.

Theon's head shook. Lilted—rapidly. Determents ignored; the funnel was forced past chapped-lips.

Water gushed down the funnel-tube, until he nearly choked. Spluttering.

Theon gagged.

More and more water, surged down his esophagus—nearly into his windpipe. Until his belly was full-round with the proof of it. Only then, did Ramsay see-fit to lower the funnel. Discarded it carelessly to clatter, upon stone.

"Is that better, Reek?" Taunting fingers rubbed up then down the length of Theon's belly. Circling the bulging, bloated, thing. Tears leaked down Theon's cheeks. Cheeks burned-red, imbued with color. The purpose for nearly choking him to death on water, dismally; became known.

"Do you pee like a girl now, Reek?" Eyes-protruded; arms tested, unforgiving-twine of rope circling each long-bruised, wrist. The saltire, however—held regrettably firm. Not so-much-as an inch of wiggle-room in either direction.

Ramsay never bid him release from this wooden hell. Instead, he was left to rot—literally—without quarter. He wet—messed whenever the need arose-but **never** in front of Ramsay.

Tremors wracked tired-limbs, "P-Please...N-No...M-Mercy..." Pained-eyes found Ramsay—Pleaded.

They screamed; Anything but this...But mercy **never** came.

Substantial bouts of water twinge in Theon's bladder. His parts quivered. Holding back proved more laborious now-He was numb, almost—in most of the area, regarding disfigured-parts; swollen, and hurting in others.

Breeches had been only gashed-open, just underneath maim-scars.

Ramsay yanked his balls forward. Left them to hang, just on the tattered-material of his breeks. "You never learn, do you Reek? You keep going to the bathroom all over yourself, like a hound. Are you a **hound** Reek?"

Theon's head jerked, "P-Please...M-Mercy!"

The longer Ramsay rattled-on, the more unattainable, it became to hold his bladder. Mercifully, his body provided signals at all—this time. Might he hold out until Ramsay left the dank-dungeon? Unimaginable, horror struck behind pitiful eyes; at even the implication of losing control—right in front of this monster.

"What have I said about **that** word, Reek?" Ramsay brushed a cold-padded, finger just across Theon's swollen-bundle of nerves-his legs contracted. Body shuddered. Drool leaked obscenely down his chin; his jaw slacked.

Cold-fingers skirted up. Prodded just into the skin above his pelvis—Poked his tremor-induced bladder. Theon grunted. Body made a natural attempt to draw taut-thighs together. Muscles strained-but did not budge. Ramsay loosened the pressure on Theon's bulging bladder. But the merciful gesture, was not merciful, at all.

"Now, I asked you a question, Reek. And you will answer me." Ramsay spoke in strict, concise tones. "Are you a hound, Reek?"

"N-No! I'm not! I s-swear! P-Please! M-Mercy!" Unfocused-beseeching optics crossed Ramsay's.

And Ramsay omitted a sigh of discontentment. "There you go again, Reek. Looking me in the eyes, and lying to me. Using **that** word. You **are** a hound, Reek. And we **both** know it." The merciless strain on Theon's bladder only mounted as more of the water hustled through his dehydrated anatomy.

He shuddered.

A little leak glistened the tip of ruined scar-tissue.

Ramsay saw the droplet. Offered his most sinister smile of triumph. "You are **almost** there, Reek. But I think you need **some** help. You did ask so nicely, after all. **Mercy, **you pled? Wasn't it?"

Ramsay returned to the area—applied pressure—hard, over his tired-bladder muscles.

There was no mercy. No dignity provided to Theon. No-only further indignities.

"N-N-No!" Blubbering. Spluttering. Theon descended into uncontainable whines—muscles unclenching. Immediately the struggle against his bloated-bladder—was lost.

With bulging eyes-blubbering pleas, hot piss fountained out of his urethra.

Sprayed from the gaping hole with odium. Spurting everywhere, identical to a woman's pee. Widened-eyes clenched shut—Theon's psyche departed.

Wet streams soaked into exceedingly, foul-fabric of stained-breeches. Wicked down either pant-leg—pinned down to wood. Puddling to make a massive wet pool on the stone beneath.

"That is it, Reek. I knew you were a hound. Nothing but an incontinent little **bitch** hound at that. Only bitches spray it all over themselves. You are just a soft, cock-less woman, now." Unforgiving-fingers dug firm—left Theon at the mercy of nature. Until the last drops trickled from his urethra.

All the while, Ramsay watched with sick fascination as his hound pissed.

Theon's mind utterly shattered as this horror came to an end—He lingered, restrained in soaked-britches. Sobs ruptured; drool soaked his chin.

Theon was **left** that way.

Privates on display; piss all down his legs—the acrid **reek** of urine in the air.

With his **final** conscious knowledge, that he was a hound. A bitch. Like Ramsay bade him, be.

**Reek**.

Filthy. Incontinent. Hound. Reek.

Nothing.

Visions of Yara—departed.

Everything that made him Theon Greyjoy—disintegrated.

* * *

**_Reek_**

Time closed in on him.

Creatures did not track time.

Hounds could not track time.

Ramsay cut him—large-distinctive, strips across damp; sweaty—skin.

Bit by bit—piece by piece.

His skin was made wretched.

"Hounds cannot have such pretty skin—can they Reek?" Words transported to him as though on fire.

"No, M-My Lord…"

Agonized lacerations, ripped away his left-nipple. Reek crashed into unconsciousness.

* * *

Nothing mattered.

Reek did not matter.

Barely alive—Would Ramsay finally let him go?

Let him die?

Might tonight be the night?

The thought made him smile. Crooked, bent teeth, showed.

"You have a wretched smile, Reek. Repulsive, in fact. I never want to see you smile again, understood?"

Blow after blow met with cheek. Mouth. Jaw.

Broken shards of tooth-bone gagged him. He spit. Sputtered.

Blood—Teeth retched onto stone.

Jagged crumbling-edges of once whole-teeth, remained. All he could taste was iron-blood.

Gums bled. Skin pulsed in repulsion.

"U-Understood…M-My L-Lord." Lisps. Squeaks—misspoken words parted sore, wounded lips.

Somewhere…A voice echoed.

'_Look at those crooked teeth—You should learn to smile with your mouth closed, Little Brother._'

Someone told him that once—Why had he learned to **smile** at all?

* * *

Swallowed by shame. Guilt. Excruciation.

Reek was barely conscious.

Would mercy come? Could it even exist anymore?

Hands tore him from the saltire.

Collided with rough-stone—Broken. Shattered-body flinched.

Winced—as rough-hands cleansed soiled skin with a sandpapery-cloth.

It should not feel **this** sinfully good.

Oh, but it does.

Reek stretched out; let the hand do what it would with him.

Eyes closed. Skin shivered. Tingled with need to be free. Clean—After so long—shrouded in filth.

Skin deteriorated. Permanently, sensitive. Raw.

Ruined muscles screamed with chronic pain.

This would not heal—Too long—stretched helpless on wood—left him crippled.

"Reek, my **bitch** hound." Coarse, vile-words sullied the air.

Reek shuddered.

Then—blinding pain. Ruined-skin, was ripped—bloody.

Pinned to the stone—penetrated by Ramsay's cock.

It hurt—make it stop…

He just wanted it to stop…

Then it was worse. Barely conscious, Ramsay touched him.

**There**.

Where twisted flesh—held bundled nerves. Where he jolted.

Rutted—Needed—pleasure. Anything to dilute severe, blinding-pain.

And to his eternal shame—He spilt.

Seed pumped from swollen balls. Over ruined scarred-tissue.

'_Do not die—Come back to me…_' A voice—unheard for a long time—wafted in.

Oh, how he wished he could go—how he **wished**…

And he fell again into darkness.

* * *

Hounds were not permitted to track time.

Reek was not. He was a creature.

Just an incontinent. Rutting. Creature.

Finally, removed from harsh-binds of the saltire.

Permitted to sleep in luxury within the hound pends.

In filth. Muck. Shit. Piss. His own—and the hounds.

Curled in sleep, loud noises awoke him. Sounds of metal clanging.

The scent of death was thick in the muggy air. And Reek—Reek laid frightful. Was Ramsay leading a hunt? Would he come for him?

Might he be permitted death?

Death was too good for Reek. Reminders coursed through a damaged skull.

Still—the sounds encroached on his cage.

And then—like a presence from a dream—Yara descended.

It was **not** real. Ramsay was playing a trick. It was a trick—and he would not succumb. He liked his pen. He liked the filth-laden hay. He did not wish to return to the saltire.

Never return.

He would **rather** die. Die…as if Ramsay might permit such relief.

His cage door opened. Fingers wrapped around his arm—he fought. Scratched. Clawed.

Wild—and frightened. Reek pushed away.

Mind garbled—his bladder released in fear. Streams wet—soaked—into the rags he donned.

Eyes rolled up in horror. Cries. Screams. Resounded as a hand clapped over his mouth.

His bladder finished releasing—just as Ramsay emerged.

Blood-soaked. Bright smile-clad on his face.

Taunting the female imitation. Taunting Reek's intelligence. Persistent that he did not wish to go with this fake, Yara—Reek fought his way back to his pen.

Where he was safe.

He was safe as long as he stayed put.

The pretender hurried from the hound pens, and Ramsay was left alone with him.

"Such a **good** boy, Reek. They wanted to **steal** you away, but you would not be stolen." Chided with words. Reek twitched.

"I w-want to s-stay…" He did not. Of course, not—but he would speak any words so as not to be remanded back to the saltire.

"You do, Reek? You like it **here**? As my incontinent little hound, bitch?" Harsh, biting words stung at Theon. He nodded—unabashed.

He was incontinent. He stank of his own piss. His rags were growing cold with the proof of it. He most assuredly was a hound—he was loyal. Obedient. And as for a bitch—Ramsay told him he sprayed his piss all over himself—like a bitch—so he was that too.

**Anything**.

He was anything, Ramsay made him.

Ramsay yanked down his breeches. Reek whined.

He knew what came next. Ramsay's blood was boiling. Chocked-full of untapped-impulses. In need of a romp. All men needed it after battle. Ramsay would take—always.

From his flesh.

After a hunt.

After a battle.

Familiar fabric rustled from behind. Theon's eyes clamped shut.

He tuned it out.

Ignored the blunt tear of his rear-end. Tuned out loud-moans. Screamed in agony—himself.

Tried—then failed—to ignore the hand that lowered. Wound round to his front. That pushed down on his stub. Tweaked. Yanked. Rubbed. Until he came apart. Seed pumped from dangling-balls. Soiling the hay, already drenched in piss.

"Such a responsive bitch you are, Reek." Ramsay cooed.

Reek sobbed.

Felt Ramsay pull out. Pump thick spurts of seed over his body. Over his back, side—some even spurted into the hair on the back of his head.

Everywhere.

He smelled of sex. Piss. Shit. Ramsay. Worst of all—Ramsay.

Left with his breeches round his knees, he toppled over into the soiled hay.

Let unconsciousness call for him.

Let horror settle in.

'_Come home to me…Come home to me…Do not die so far from the sea…_'

_If only….If only…._

* * *

Sea-salt sprayed gaunt frightful-features. Home—was wherever Yara was.

Had he spoken bittersweet words once? Barely surfaced memories of soft-familiar touches spilled into the forefront. Rank skin—reeked.

Filth. Rags.

He needed to say goodbye—**properly**.

Even a man—not quite a man—must own up to past mistakes.

Had he only gone **with** her—Pride gouged a path in his soul. He had stubbornly clung hold of a dream. His **father's** approval.

Why? Why had it **mattered**? Compared with the wretched **nightmare** he faced.

Was the sea real? Ocean-waves crashed to shore. Skin fraught with sickness—malnutrition. Barely able to stomach a chunk of bread—Theon was a pittance.

Was he still Theon—when he was also Reek?

Questions—scoured broken—fractured wounds of a mortal soul. Mortality made him weak. Yara tried to rescue him once—Did she not?

Fragmented segments of life **crowded** him.

He could not smile—would **never** smile again. But if he could—He would choose **this** moment.

When the Iron-Islands came into view. Taunted him with worries.

Even Yara's forgiveness harbored its limits. And what would she see in **him** now?

Why even say his **farewell**? Why?

Something called his blood-home.

'_Do not die so far from the sea…_' Now—He would fulfil that wish.

Yara was hard. Demanding. Everything he could never again, be. And she was right—**always** right. He was **no** leader. Deserved **no** fleet. He never even deserved the warm-wet **home** between muscled-thighs.

She saw through his weaknesses—**then**.

So why could not, he?

* * *

By the time, deep-seated; distressed, boned-arches made the walk to Pyke—Theon was half-keeled over.

Did he dare plead forgiveness?

Could he even look her in chestnut-eyes and plead his case? Worthy soldiers—men that were Yara's died to secure his rescue—and he had **cowered**. Like an ingrate—as Ramsay reminded him; he most assuredly was—nearly with the cost of Yara's life, too.

Not even Yara could forgive that—and yet, still his **blood** called to her—sang in crucial selfish-need to lay eyes on her—one more time.

Without, Sansa's persistence—He never would have awoken from within Reek.

Rags were all he donned. Skin pallid; cheekbones sunken in—Theon could not gain nutrition. Broken—pained teeth—ranged beyond endurance. Rotator cuffs twanged when arms extended. Scars—old and new left so much of his skin numb—and marked—there would be no point to attempt his rehabilitation. Incontinence was also—half part of him. Ramsay tore away his abilities to be a man. Dignity was lost. Translucent skin—revealed pale, thin—broken—veins. Bald-patches thinned out—once thick, luscious sandy-curls. Fingernails broke—well beneath the quick, consistently. Bleeding nailbeds never healed. And then—there was the piece of him Yara sought to offer her pleasure. Mutilated scars—swollen, balls—were all that were retained—**there**.

Presented in tattered rags. Shoe-soles worn to almost nothing—sunken deep eyes—was how she might perceive him.

Years had passed—He surmised as much by the Stark-female's lean frame. All grown—He watched innocence raped from her bodice—the same way it was raped—**stolen**—from his.

Somehow—Pyke appeared differently, now. Less like home—**emptier**. Westeros lost its color. For Theon—color would never reinsert into the innermost—brand of his psyche.

He was not alive. Existing?

Barely. But as a shell.

Finally—Stood in the presence of the warmest being he knew. Theon rang his hands. Would she punish him for his betrayal? He would submit—without question were she to deem it fit. But with so much of him lost…Why might she bother?

Their father had concealed himself in his chambers. Theon was warned of such, prior to appearing in Yara's.

To think—once he deemed himself worthy of claiming not only these chambers—but Yara's heart as well.

**Foolish**.

Poised on cushioned—silken-bed-wool, blankets. Yara was unmoved.

"I heard you had returned. I scarcely, believed it. Not after your **betrayal**. Brother."

Theon's belly scorched. What he would not give for endearment. Sympathy—love—but sympathy was not in an Iron-Born's nature. Not **especially**, Yara's.

"I risked the world to save you. Did you know that?" Harshly, venom spewed from cold-lips.

Theon bowed his head in shame. Twitched. Waited.

"I did not come to stay, S-Sister." Lisps—Mispronounced words—She must be hiding amusement in her throat. His cockiness—was **gone**.

Dust in the wind.

Theon shifted weight. One foot to the other. Blisters afflicted his feet; due to thin-soled shoes.

Seemingly shocked by the news—her eyebrow arced, upward.

"Oh? And where might you travel? Far away?" Iciness laced her tone.

"To the D-Drowned G-God. Where I might finally, know p-peace." It was weak—to take one's life. But Theon, cared little. He willed himself to be whole again. Someplace else.

Anyplace else.

A shadow passed over her features. Something untold.

"Then why come back, here? This is **not** your home, anymore. Why. Come. Back?"

Head bowed—little tear-streaks spread down sunken-cheeks.

He thought she might hold him. Tell him it would be okay. Run those protective-fingers through his hair—one **last** time. Might he know that comfort as he left this world? Yara was hard. And he was no longer charismatic—handsome. He could not crack her shell, and seek out light. Respect. Even a sliver of dignity. He deserved **nothing**.

Ramsay told him so.

He felt small. So **small**.

Stood before her—like this.

Reeking of filth. Still, in **love** with her. Those words she spoke to him last—had stuck with him. Now—Now they were forgotten. With time. With years.

Whatever force kept his back tall—gave out. And he **slumped**. Broken—shattered eyes, secreted despondent waves of despair.

"I should not h-have." Tears flooded his vision. All those hopes—dreams—when first he was tortured. Tied to a saltire. Ramsay managed to strip him down, until the last thing he loved—could no longer love him back.

"F-Forgive me, Ya-aa…" The final humiliation—his inability to pronounce her **name**.

Theon fled—as fast as his broken—battered form could.

Past guards, vacant halls—into the light of day. The last thing Yara would think of him—was that he was a **coward**.

So pathetic—He came all the way home—only to die on familiar sand. Sands that saw him as an outsider. People that despised him. Theon walked, until the beachy sand was underfoot. Until, the sun itched his hyper-sensitive skin. Months of uncleanliness, ruined his skin for endurance. Malnutrition thinned his skin—until every blue—thin vein could be viewed through translucent texture.

Brief flickers of his baptism—cleansed by these same waters—just before he departed to Winterfell—came to mind. Heeded by exhaustion, Theon's body was ready. Ready to give in to every little thing that addled him.

Tears fell. Endless streams. Snot ran down his nose.

Why did she ever ask him to return to her? Why?

Why had her voice kept him alive? To what end?

Theon bent forward. Let salt-tainted waters lap at his hands. Sting every cut. The broken nailbeds. Lick at long-sleeved rags. Silent prayers enraptured his frail-psyche. Might his soul be remanded to the depths for the Drowned God to shower mercy-upon?

Theon shivered.

Giggles sounded. They could have been far—near.

Theon's mind was a million miles away. Suddenly; arms encircled his waist. Bent over—Vulnerable as he was. Theon jilted. Wrangled from the foreign touch. Backed away. Wild-eyes sought the culprit of the attack.

It was not a man. Not as he feared.

Two young children peered down at him. Straight auburn-haired, long-lashes. Peachy-cream complexion. Solemn hazel-optics, all recognized in the female. Curled locks, emerald-optics, and a beautifully-dimpled smile on the lad.

Shock spurned his system.

"Mum said you were going away. And that you asked her to keep this safe for you. Til, you came back." Presented, in the palm of the little girl's hand—was a smooth, chunk of wood—He long since forgot about.

The only **surviving** piece—of Theon's weirwood bow.

* * *

**_Yara_**

Why had he not just gone with her when she asked? Stubborn. Iron-Blooded, man to the last, piece of him.

Yara could remember as he bent on a knee. Calm, spectacular, before her. Presented the smooth-worn piece of weirwood up towards her. Pleaded with raspy-breath for her to hold tight to the wood. He vowed it would serve her well. That they would meet again—that she could present it to him, when they reunited.

Naively. She had.

Depleted of energy; Theon had planted a final kiss to her lips. Sent her on her way.

Back to her ships—her men. Back to **their** home; without **him**.

She regretted her choice. Not to betray him. Knock him out—steal him back to the bay, where her ship awaited, docked.

She had fantasized of that inclination—but when she saw the pride in his eyes. The joy. That he had taken Winterfell—proven to their Father he was loyal only to the Iron-Born. She could **not** take that from him.

Not after all she had **already** staked claim, too.

It was not until Ramsay sent the favorite '_toy'_ of Theon's that she collapsed to her knees.

Barely made it to her chambers, and was violently-sick into a chamber pot—that she knew her mistake.

**Such** a mistake.

She kept his cock. Dried, like-leather. Hardened in the box, Ramsay planted it in. Mournfully, remembered the feel of Theon inside of her. Knew that she would never know that feeling again.

What had he endured, when **that** was stripped from him? What **humiliation**?

What **pain**?

She blamed herself. Knew she should have kidnapped him that night. Even if he **never** forgave her—would it not have been better than this?

So, she had sailed. Known in her heart the danger of a rescue mission. But her brother was there. Broken—hurting. Her baby brother—**needed** her.

By then, Yara had known the gift that Theon left for her. Their final collective nightfall. Tangled. Needful. Forceful. He had given—as she **took**. Drained him of his seed.

Nestled low in her belly, had been their son, and daughter. Children. Unborn—but **theirs**.

She knew the risks; knew she could lose Theon, and irreplaceably precious, cargo. But she had gone, **regardless**.

Her belly had still been flat—It had barely been three months when the '_gift'_ arrived.

No one had known. Just **her**.

Purposefully, Yara let him fill her. Longed for a family—with Theon. No one had to know where the kin came from. She had been seen reeving—raping, the same as her male-crew, up until that final night. When they pledged body—and soul—to one another.

When lost-eyes met hers—she had known he was forever lost. **Dead**.

And she had left him there. Where he refused to flee.

Where he remained—an animal. Not even human.

It broke her **heart**—but it was **him**—or their **children**.

She chose to **live**—Chose their unborn **offspring**.

Now—to see him back? Stood before her. Pleading for pittance?

What did he deem she had left to give to him? Yara walled off her heart—upon that last night their eyes met—and his were **lost**.

It could not open again—to see…to **truly** see…What became of her beloved, baby brother.

Their children—She labored for. Birthed from inside of her own bodice. Raised four-years without him. Hardened her heart. They **were** her heart now. Her **soul**.

Still—Yara saw the pitiful creature before her. Witnessed his breakage as her tongue slashed him. He did not **fight**—did not **plead**…

Gave in—then gave up.

To know he came home—to **die**…

It damaged her. She could not speak—because she remembered one of the last things, she pleaded of him.

'_Do not die so far from the sea…_'

Had he hung on to that? Permitted that broken—battered frame to live…so that it might die close to the sea? Near to **her**?

Soon thereafter, Yara sought out their children. Huddled. Playing—in their chambers. And asked little Alannys to fetch the weirwood piece from their things. She had presented it to the twins. Little Theon, too. As a keepsake of their true father's.

She need only look upon her children to know they were **his**. Theon gave her life—She could repay the favor, now.

Stood just a fraction away on beach-sands, Yara strained against the warm-sun rays to watch Theon stunned, grip the wood between broken-stubbed fingers. Wariness in once, lively sea-green eyes.

And Yara knew—she could not leave him to this fate. No matter how betrayed **she** might feel.

This pitiful, wrecked creature—was **still** her baby brother.

* * *

**_Theon_**

Wary, tear-stained eyes considered the little wooden-chunk. Confirmation registered in his addled-mind.

These…beautiful creatures…were **his**? **Theirs**?

Hovering above him—The female held such a spark in her. **Light**. Like Yara did once. It brought, further streams of tears—down pallid-cheekbones.

Parched, Theon's voice rasped. "Thank you." How monstrous he must appear to these alluring creatures.

Twisted, mangled-hands, extended. Cupped.

The little girl pattered away, only a few inches. Then, eyes-flicked, pointedly to her brother. As though uncertain. Then turned, emboldened; gaze back upon Theon.

Three, remaining fingers on his right hand, gripped the wood clumsily. Once, he would hold the wood, tight. Imagine, his revered-bow would once, more shoot, from agile-fingers. Now—mangled as his hands were—Theon would never shoot a bow, and arrow, again.

"Are you our, father? Mum always **said** that belonged to him." Precocious—just as Yara had once, been. Theon felt his heart **strain** with insurmountable-ache.

If **only** he could be.

If only he could **claim** them.

"No." He rasped. Words mispronounced through, heavy-lisp. "I will n-never be that."

Seemingly discouraged. Both children turned their eyes toward the sand-grains.

"So, Mummy **lied**?" The female piped up.

Theon closed overexerted eyes. Felt the burn of sunlight on pale-skin. Listened to the crash of water, land ashore.

"You keep this." Avoidant of the question, Theon extended his mangled-hand back to the children. "Your m-mum gave this t-to me, as a gift, once. But it has no use where I am bound." Mournfully, Theon relinquished the piece back to his little girl's palm.

What he might have given—years ago—to know a family. Heirs. Yara.

Hostility was all he sensed, when Yara's eyes bore within his. Already, Theon's knees ached. Back-tweaked in pain. Far too broken, was his skeleton—to return to Yara—and **stay**. Might he know some comfort at the end? The afterlife could not be so bad as this.

With that, the children turned. Rushed back up the sands, to stand at Yara's feet. Though he could hear the chirp of their high-pitched voices from afar—he could not make out the words. Silent-prayers were made. To the Drowned-God. To all the Seven Gods. To any that might hear. To release his spirit from that which he suffers.

Struggling to his feet. Theon's back creaked with ache. Twitches—shrouded his greatly-diminished, form. Determined. Hopeless. Weathered-feet guided him onward. Toward, then within, the lap-heavy pull of waves. Felt the burn of salt, beat into his wound-addled, skin. Moaned in a mixture of pain, weariness—exhaustion.

"So, that is it **then**? You would come back…only to **leave** me here? **Alone**? **Again**?"

Halted. Waist-deep in frigid-cold water. Theon struggled against pressured-waves, to turn. Seek out those ferocious chestnut-eyes. Once, they had laid so near. Made little promises within each other's ear-shells. If he closed his eyes—listened hard enough—he could still hear those whispers. From afar. As though lifetimes from where he now stood.

Parted—Split in half. Skinned of the soul that she knew—loved.

He saw hurt in her eyes. He put that there—selfishly.

**He** did this.

"I cannot continue, Ya-aa. I n-never want you to understand what I endured. I o-only came b-back…" Weakness. Yara remained his one-true weakness.

Beaten—battered as he was. Cruelly dehumanized, turned into a hound. Bitch. Plaything. What could ever describe all of that? How could he make her understand? Even if he desired her to?

It was more than unbearable. He was **already** lost. Shelled out. Hollowed. Inconceivably inhuman. Shamed. Was it weak—selfish—to just want to let go?

"Would you h-have me s-suffer? Ya-aa…You l-loved me, o-once. I know y-you cannot still, but y-you did…I w-want to g-go…L-Let me g-go." Words jumbled. He did not even know if she could understand them. He was so achy—tired. Words melded together in his mind. Past. Present. Future.

Deluded him into the illusion, he **might** be set free.

Determination set in hazel-optics. Yara waded into frigid-waters. Did not even shiver—as he was now doing, **uncontrollably**.

Blue-veins stuck out on thinned-skin. Broken-teeth chattered. Body-temperature declined, dangerously, as he stood. Waist-deep in salty-cold depths.

Yara made it to him—forced darkened, sea-green optics to view hers. Theon's stomach broiled. Reminded of a time when her touch—had soothed him. Tremors-wracked his spent form. Screams, stormed his mind.

Her warm-rough thumbs, wiped tears from his cheeks.

"Come inside with me, Baby Brother. The twins **need** their father. Do not leave them **this** way. You have yet to even **know** of them. I named our son for you, Theon. Our daughter, Alannys, for our mother." Shudders invoked up his spine.

"W-Why? Y-You were r-right about m-me. I am n-nothing, Ya-aa. I n-never deserved a-anything. Not y-you…N-Not these islands…I b-brought shame on y-you…" He denied her attempt at rescue. Cowered in filth-laden hound pens when she called.

"You came **back** here. You **came** back, Theon. A month's journey—with a body **this** broken. Why did you come back? Tell me? **Make** me understand—Why? Only to walk into the sea? To die beneath the waves?" Theon recognized teary-rims in her eyes. Why would she cry for him?

He felt so small—weak. Why would his hard-iron, sister, shed even a single tear for him, now?

Already—She deemed him **dead** to her.

Those passion-filled thoughts that drove him to seek out this place—his once-home—were **gone**. After all, she told him upon his arrival in her chambers—this was **not** his home. Not **anymore**.

Salt-burned the lesions on his skin. So many wounds. Every jostle of his consistently-swollen cheeks, from those well-intended hands—made fine, whimpers emerge. She was hurting his battered-teeth. He deserved it.

He made no move to prevent her.

"I w-was selfish, Y-Ya-aa…I t-thought…" Embarrassment, clouded his mind.

Such a deficient, worthless creature he was. The mixture of frigid-water—and inflicted-pain, caused warm-wetness to leak. Water-warmed around them.

Yara surely felt it, too.

"Did you just…"

Crestfallen, Theon broke-down into sobs. Coughed. Choked. On his own snot.

"Please Ya-aa…Let me **die**—I want to die…"

Horror wrote onto usually, stern, unmoved-features. Though, as Theon tried to tug clear of her—she only clung-hold. Hot-tears rolled down the exterior of suddenly, blanched-skin.

Mortification spread-rampantly throughout his form.

"What has he **done** to you, Baby Brother?" The question so-broad, so mind-boggling. Theon could only choke on his snot. There was no answer that would ever suffice.

"I j-just wanted y-you to h-hold me…o-one last t-time…I-It was a-all I w-wanted…" Pitiful, barely-formed, nearly-inaudible words emerged. Might she provide him peace if she knew the answer? He traveled a month's journey—with collapsing-mutilated parts just so that he might seek this.

"O-Oh, Theon…" Yara was speechless. Theon could not recall a time, when his loud-mouthed, unforgiving, elder sister, could not form a comment. A **thought**. A sequence of words to break him at his **core**.

Instead, loving-fingers traveled up to what remained of once, thick-curls. Brushed through the thin-balding strands. Rubbed, compassionate-circles across his back. Pushed. Dug. Into unreachable—to him—aches, and muscles-torn by vicious blades. Whilst other-fingers spanned his chest, up to his bony-neck. Inhuman-groans surpassed, chapped, blue-tinged lips.

By now, Theon was so cold—his entire body was wracked in tremors. Yara's touch became, bliss. No one had touched him with kindness, in four years.

All he knew as Reek—was pain. Kicks—Punches—punishments. The vicious cycle, repeated. Never collapsed in on itself in the brutality of it. Instead, Theon cracked—broke, bodily. Mentally. Became the reeking hound, Ramsay expected of him.

"Please…Baby Brother…Come inside. I w-will hold you until the sun goes d-down. Just please—For me…" Theon never heard her voice crack with tears this way.

Not since their Mother died. Not since, he was ripped from warm-arms, and dragged from his home. From **her**.

"I l-lost…I lost so much, both t-times you left before, Please, Theon."

Lower lip, trembled. Theon sank into her soothing-touch. Unable to refrain from taking her up on it. The promise for love. Affection. A night of pleasure after such unavoidable-pain.

It was **all** he ever wanted.

* * *

**_Yara_**

The **sight** of him.

Up-close. Mangled-broken. Yara was speechless.

How was **this** creature—**still** her brother? Although he again, retained Theon's memories. She remembered that night. **Vividly**.

The night she staged an ill-fated rescue attempt. Wild-eyes had **seen** her—but not even **known** her. Shoved. Clawed. Sniveled away from her as though afraid of brutalization at her hands.

Pregnant. Fearful, for those precious unborn, babes Yara had fled. Left that creature behind, believing she would never lay eyes on her handsome baby brother, again.

Now, she **was**.

But this was worse than his demise.

He traveled a month to know her arms, once more? Just for a few tender-felt touches? How mangled **was** the skin under these rags?

Her only knowledge extended to the rod of skin, once proud—needy—between pink-thighs. But what else was missing? Taken?

She surveyed him in the light. No longer in the dark shadowy-light of her chambers. Nor, in the pitch-black of night, in the foul-smelling hound pen.

No. This was **sunshine**, (rare in the Iron Islands), daylight. Mid-afternoon. Half of him was hidden underneath the green-sea surface. And bundled underneath rags. But the half she could perceive—told a brazen, horrific tale, all-its-own.

Scars poked from the circular, neck-hole of his ragged-tunic, (if these rags could even be given a proper name at all) his eye-sockets were sunken-hollows. Cheeks caved in, to reveal hard, bone-structure. Bald-thinned patches, slivers of grey-white, coated his once, thick mane of cream-colored, hair. Most haunting of all. His eyes. The emerald-light she loved—cherished in those beautiful-eyes. Had dulled. Darkened in color. Theon was near-**death**.

Horrifically, Yara felt the surge of warmth, underneath the frigid waters—and lamented the loss of his dignity. To see the sheer-misery written into the depths of disheartened-eyes—There was no **word** to describe what that did to her. To see him **this** way. To hear him **plead** for death—It tore her apart.

Then, confiding in her ear, with barely audible—barely decipherable garble, that he returned—just to find comfort in her touch? It tore her the **rest** of the way, open.

So, she gave what he needed. Promised it all—if he would come out of these frigid waters. She could not, let him leave this world—this way. No man, deserved, **this**. No human being, should ever be fractured into something **irreparable**.

Stood, fabric-dripping, Yara had sent the twins, off to play. It was just the pair of them, here.

Fire-crackling within the hearth, bathing tub filled to the brim with hot-water. Planted just before it. Yara, stood before him.

Water-puddled on the stone around, worn-soled shoes. Stood, clutching to the rags he donned, as though they were attached to his skin. Hollow-eyes gawked at her.

* * *

**_Theon_**

"You promised m-me your a-arms, Ya-aa…" Wounded—frightened optics sought hers.

Had she lied? Only to further the humiliation? As though his bones had not sunk low-enough already. The final indignity. To undress before her eyes.

Already, Yara stripped off salt-water drenched, breeches, and jerkin. Supple-enlarged breasts, revealed. Nipples-puckered. Pinked. Pelvis, adorned with coarse-hair—all displayed. The ache ignited, underneath his breeks. Ball-sac, strained upwards. Pulled taut against, sensitive scarred-tissue. Worst of all—the throb. Just where his sensitive nerves laid. His stub.

Ramsay would, seldom touch him. But when the fancy struck, he would offer Theon no quarter. Rub him. Grind him—make him **come** apart. To his **eternal**-shame.

Unbearably—Theon ached, with phantom twinges from his parts. Seared in his belly—with need for his lover. Amusement would adorn caramel-eyes, if she knew. How intolerable it would be, if she laughed. He was **still** a warm-blooded male—despite what Ramsay **took** from him—convinced him of.

Cruelly, Yara came forward. Let careful-fingers reside over his steel-clad, heart. "You are in **desperate** need of a bath, Baby Brother. You **reek**."

Horror, chilled Theon's blood. Head-tremors ignited. Stuttering—Theon extended an arm, met stone-cold of the wall. "S-S-Sorry…I kn-now…" How could she stand to be in the same **room** as he?

Why had he been selfish? Asked for her arms to hold him?

How could she stand to **touch** him? Theon **was** filth.

Ramsay had reminded him—every single miserable-day. No woman would desire a reeking, hound.

Oh, but Ramsay made certain Theon rutted like one. On his knees. Degraded. Sensitive bits hard-pressed to Ramsay's scratchy-leg.

On his cruelest day, Ramsay spread acidic-cream over hairy-spots. Burned unappealing-hair, from thinning-skin. Permanent, scars ensued. His pelvis, now smooth. Armpits, chest, legs. 'Like a woman's' Ramsay would coo to him in the throes of passion.

Taken-aback, Yara cautiously neared him. "I did not mean to offend, Baby Brother. When have you last removed those rags? Hm? I had the largest tub brought. Large enough for us both. I want to cleanse you of it. Make you **clean**. Let me?"

Theon learned to cling-tight to these ragged-things. Ramsay would not present him with a replacement. These were a gift. Meant, so he might be grateful to Ramsay. Even though Theon **escaped**, it was implemented into his brain, that these were **precious**-cloth. His **only** means of attire.

Another, (more important) thought lingered. Humiliation would be ensured, were he to disrobe.

"P-Please, Y-Ya-aa…I do not w-want you t-to see…" Especially **her**. The shame was so great. Insurmountable, to any he ever knew.

"I have seen men blown to bits in battle. Seen scars on men, I have lain with—" Theon flinched. They would never lay together again. Sympathy shone in her eyes. "—There is nothing I have not already seen, underneath those rags."

The things she would see—were unbearable. "P-Please…" Theon knew better than to use such a word. Ramsay **beat** him for that word. Yara would **not** beat him. Of that he was nearly **certain** of now.

"Theon. Ramsay sent our father a **piece** of you. Your most **precious** piece. I know what he did…down there…" Subtle, whispered words, invoked panic, underneath marred-skin.

Ramsay never told Theon what became of his manhood. Once the seared-burn of cauterization rendered Theon unconscious. He never laid eyes on the mangled, sawed-off, rod, again. He had assumed it had been tossed.

"N-No…Ya-aa…" Theon meant to die. Meant to **leave** this planet before she might ever come to know of his deep-seeded shame. To comprehend she knew the **entire** time?

"Why do you think I came to **rescue** you, Baby Brother? When I saw what he had **done**—How he was **hurting** you…I could not bear to think on it."

So much was taken. So many tattered-strips of a wretched-soul. Solemn tears leaked from his eyes, in constant-streams. No prevention. Theon lowered tired-optics. Unable to still thoughts, long enough to find speech.

"Do you still feel attraction to me, Theon? Or was that robbed from you, too?" Her skin burned his—even through the layer of rags he donned. Deadened-eyes flickered to a close. Whiny-little noises vibrated, his voice-box.

Trapped against the stone-wall. Yara pressed-full against his ruined-body. Little throbs, began from his stubbed-bundle of nerves. Pulses. Thick-heaving breaths. She must think him **inhuman**. No longer capable of **feeling**. To ask him such a question? Was the **intent** to humiliate? Torture? He was familiarized, with so **many** kinds of tortures.

"I f-feel it, Ya-aa. I a-ache…I j-just cannot…h-have y-you." Tears wet the stone-wall.

Saddened-eyes lowered. Yara retracted. Detaching from the stone, Theon finally resigned his opposition.

"R-Remove t-them if you w-will. If it is m-my shame you w-will have. Then h-have it." His broken-form ached, worse than the moment-last, the longer he pleaded. Cramps began in broken-boned feet, surged up to his lower-spine. He just yearned for her comfort. That was all.

Why would she not give it, **freely**? Upon the bed?

Instead, she prodded. Poked. Teased. Until he felt less-than human.

As firm-hands jilted up the hem of his ragged-tunic. His arm-muscles strained to move, nary an inch. Halted at his underarms, Yara viewed him. "Can you…Lift them?" Tearfully, Theon strained. Felt the pop as sore muscles struggled to accommodate her wish. Pained, whines skirted through the chamber. Yara appeared unnerved by his noises. But they could not be foregone. After the time spent on that saltire, four years hence—Theon's arms, and legs never recovered.

Sheer abhorrence wrote into those eyes. It was the first emotion, Theon could detect. It made him long to cover himself. But where to begin?

Scars tattered his chest, abdomen, arms. Thick-upraised things where a knife cut skin. Sliced off his right-nipple. Pierced his form—**everywhere**. Yara's hand covered her mouth. Would she vomit?

"P-Please…Let me put it back on. I a-am **repulsive**… J-Just…P-Please, Y-Ya-aa…" Must he be subjected to this?

As though recognizing her own abstract-horror; Yara violently, shook her head.

"No. You **need** a bath." More adamant. She surged forward. And, yanked his breeks down, before he could so much as yelp.

Suddenly, all of him was on display. Rough-worn edges. Hairless pubic area. Scarred-tissue. Still alive with little, impulsive-throbs from her abrasive-nudity. Enlarged, ball-sac hung, swollen between drenched-thighs. Flayed-off patches donned, up either bone-thin, leg.

Knowing about something—and seeing it—were two separate affairs, entirely.

Without acknowledgement. Without another **single** word, on it. (Not even to deny his own claim of repulsion.) Yara crossed the distance to the wooden-tub. Sank underneath heated depths, and spoke up.

"Come. Climb in with me, Baby Brother." Sullen whispers emerged. "I had a bit of toasted-bread brought up. You **must** be starving."

For the first time, sullen, green-eyes landed on the plate with bread in the corner. Over the scent of rose-steamed water. He had not smelt toast. Now, his heart-sank all-the-same.

With great-care, Theon lowered his battered, aching-form within the watery-depths. Loud, unapologetic, cries, came. This was bliss.

Pure. Needful. Bliss.

Theon curled—like a small child, would upon her lap. Craned his head—tucked into her neck-column. Wound thin, bony-arms round her middle. And drew up tight to her front. This same formidable-position seared into his memories. When thunder would crash. Lightening would startle, him with ambiguous-shadows. This is how he would seek comfort in her. When he was at his **most** vulnerable.

Theon had never suffered, more vulnerability—than in these last four years. His fragile, delicately-pieced together, psyche, craved reassurance. Comfort. Love.

From his damaged-chest, to his severed toe-stubs, he felt **exposed**.

Finally, strong-assertive arms wound around his middle. Grazed over horrifically-traumatized skin on his back. Working, kneading sickly-thin flesh. Whilst her other hand, worked over his un-maimed nipple—Flicked the bud. Then worked along his lower-belly. Brushed just above his pelvis.

Theon shivered.

"Tell me **where** it hurts most, Baby Brother."

No place was worst. It **all** ached—**all** the time.

"Everywhere…"

"Do you want the toasted bread?" Little soothing-hums permeated the air.

"I-I cannot…"

"Why not?" Fingers proceeded to knead him—everywhere she could reach. Avoidant of his scarred-privates, all-the-while.

The touches built his needs. Pulsed him right **there**—against her taut-belly. Still, her hand did not stray.

Theon hesitated.

Dead-silent.

"Theon...?" Seeking-hands stilled their journeying.

"R-Ramsay broke my t-teeth." Ashamed, worn-thin defeat, bypassed, gaunt-features.

"Let me see, Baby Brother." Soothing tones, instilled sheer-will within the air.

Defeated—Theon permitted pliant-fingers to peel back his upper-lip. Blood-heavy gums were revealed. Cracked, obliterated, remnants of crooked-front teeth were broken down to uneven-stubs. Molar-teeth were missing, or equally-shattered—Cracked.

"Oh, Baby Brother…" Eyes-saddened. Fingers-retracted. "Is there anything you **can** eat? How have you **survived**?"

Yara harbored a mothering-touch—tone. Recognition pulsed in his dulled-hues, that she must have raised their babies with the same, nurturing, mannerisms—Instincts. Uncommon as they were in the Iron Islands, Yara had first acquired them, whilst attending him—When she was but a child, herself.

Subdued by steaming-water, that soothed weary, ache-laden muscles—Theon peaked at her. Humbled. So often, he hacked food-pieces, with clumsy-fingers, sucked at chicken-strands, rather than chewed. Found obscene-ways around dental-pain. Even one chomp, surged unbearable, crippling-agony throughout his jawline—straight up into his eye-sockets.

"Liquids…When I could f-find some…S-Snow…or s-sucking on f-food…" Even to suck caused intense-pain. Though none-so-bad as when he chewed.

Tender-touches swirled around cramp-addled bones right upon the small of his spine. Whines. Moans. Sighs—all parted, thin-cracked lips.

Tears lit, caramel-hues, but she maintained, **deafening** silence, all the same. So, Theon rested his sweat-soaked hair against, her tight-skin.

Instilled, resolutely in silence. Yara's hand reached for a silky-soft (compared with the one Ramsay once brushed him with) sponge. Muscles-rippled, underneath his raw-skin. Soap, expunged the filth from his crevices. Rib-bones jutted out lewdly, as her hand trailed the subtle sponge, across them. Chest. Neck. Back. Legs.

All-the-while, noticeably, avoidant of his pulsing, **mangled**, need. His curved-hand, meanwhile, rested over Yara's pumping-heart. Felt burning-heat from her healthy, pink-skin, underneath his bony-hand. He yearned to pull her body-heat within his own. To be **whole** again, with her.

"I took care of you, when you were **just** a little boy. More than even our mother. You used to **love** baths the most, do you remember?" Wisps of joyous recollections seemed so far from view. Theon sighed—but made no motion to indicate he heard. "You would patter on ahead of me. Climb in, splash water all over the stone-floors. And **beg** me to clean you. Even when you were old enough to manage it yourself, you **always** pleaded for me to do it, for you. And our brothers…they would poke fun, but you were **my** baby brother. I would have done **anything** you asked." Theon felt her hand still—Just above his pelvis. "You were soft, and warm. Filled with a spark of light that no amount of taunting from our brothers could extinguish." Theon shivered as she made dizzy-circles over his pelvic-region. Just **above** where he throbbed. Faded-lips parted. Hitched-sounds emerged. "You were **mine**, Baby Brother. And I **needed** you, just as deeply as you **needed** me. To see that light, I loved in you, depleted…snuffed out. I did not believe such a thing possible, before I saw you **that** night."

Shivers jolted up his hunched-over spine. Further, he made to press his nose against salt-scented skin.

"If I can **give** you something, Baby Brother. Provide you with even a fraction of ease to your pain, you need only **ask** for it."

Those circling-motions **made** him ache for it. Tense—Just upon her chest.

"P-Please…" Two collective-tears tracked down his chaffed-cheeks. Silent, sobs ignited. Whole body-shakes, wracked to the tune of each inhaled, sob. Ramsay would make him beg, too. Plead with burned-scarlet cheeks. Then, chide him for **how** he would procure, satiation, once permission was granted. Might he be **spared** it, now? Already, Theon proved unable to so much as look her in the eye. "M-Mercy…" So often he had begged—just to acquire, a spark of mercy—but it **never** came.

Until, now.

"I will **never** hurt you, Baby Brother. Shh…You say you can still feel? **Here**?" The dizzying-circles lowered, now rubbed into, his blood-hard, overtly sensitive, scar-tissue. Shock splurged everywhere. Littered his senses. Made it difficult to even, **breathe**.

His eyes-crossed, hips-jerked, spasming with avidity. Ramsay left his ball-sac, fully in-tact. Therefore, it tended to exceedingly, torment him with broiling-need, to fulfill every manly-urge, like previously done, whilst he was **whole**. And now, pressed-hard against the object of his affections, Theon was **lost** in carnality.

Gripes. Mewls. Sobs. All came in waves. "Ya-aa…" Each time he closed, exhausted-eyes, whilst made to rut upon, Ramsay's leg—It was Yara's name—that **came** to mind. Even in his most muddled, moments. There was just, Yara. Ramsay had chided him when **first** he spoke her name. Until he was ashamed of it. So **ashamed**.

All agony was overridden—for just a moment. Feeble-minded thoughts tore clean from this pathetic-crippled body. And returned here—**Home**—To Yara.

"You would **swell** down there…Just the same as you have **now**; when I would change your diapers, Baby Brother. If I touched you there—You would get so excited, and squirmy. I never understood why, **then**. But I soon learned how to **touch** you. How to make your little part, **throb**, and pulse for me." The sponge fell from her hand. Calloused-fingers touched-down on the swollen, blood-red hunk of sensitive-lechery. Theon spasmed. Gurgled. Drool leaked from the corner of pallid-lips. "I **will** learn again, Brother. You are **still** mine. And I am **still** yours. You might be scarred, and bruised…with jagged-bits—" Yara tracked her index finger over various bumpy places where cauterization-scars reside. "—But your balls are thick, and full—" She gave them a tight-squeeze; Theon yelped. "—So, we need to **find** a way, to empty them. You are **most** sensitive up here—" Her index brushed the knotted-bundle of raw-nerves. Akin to that of a woman's pearl. He shivered; then whined. "—Yeah, look at you. You like it when I rub here. Will you come apart for me? Maybe if I touch you, like you used to touch **me**, do you remember?" Her thumb, joined her index-finger. Pinched. Squeezed. Jerked. The swollen, nerves.

Howled-moans, muffled into her neck, as Theon gripped-hold of her for dear-life. Pulsed. Juddered. Came—with such a force, his entire skeleton-rattled. Eyes rolled back, skin-flushed, and seed milked into watery-depths.

Theon lost any train of thought he might have known. Collapsed in pleasure, and relief, into her arms. Blackness—clouded his vision. Darkness consumed him.

* * *

**_Yara_**

No description in the world, could ascertain what she discerned, from her own brother's battered form. Not once she coaxed him, within, their chambers, (Yara would be damned if he ever laid to rest in other chambers aside from **these** again whilst home.) and practically tore, the tattered-rags from his blue-tinged body.

Horrific marks littered every aspect of once muscular, near-perfect flesh. How could one human being inflict such **suffering** upon another?

With such swift, callous-brutality?

This was the man she loved—cherished. Despite all their feuds—personality-clashes—all of it. Theon mattered as much to her, as those little-lives he aided her in bringing into this world.

Theon was the soft-bellied, Father of her children.

Despite his inability to flee with her **that** night—nor to recognize her upon her rescue-endeavor; Yara could no longer hold **either** of those shortcomings, against him.

Theon was **broken**. Chipped. **Shattered**. Thousands of his sensitive-nerves severed. Cut, from healthy-flesh, in an attempt to make him **ugly**. Inhuman. **Unlovable**.

Theon was barely a man's age, when captured—**mutilated**—by that monstrosity. Stood afore her, he was not even in his twenty-fifth year—and yet, his hair (what remained) was whitish-grey in some areas. Theon was going grey-haired!

Bones poked from beneath, sickly-pale skin. Blue-veins were visible, so clear—it was eerie.

The missing toes—fingers—coupled with his inability to even enunciate words—nearly brought her to her knees, with grief. Though she refused to let those emotions reveal themselves. How could she? With the humiliated form of her brother, shoulders-hunched, emasculated in front of her?

It was all she could do, to step into steaming water, in order to beckon him in.

Hold his bodily-decimated, figure. Stroking him—touching his dry, decrepit-skin—was tantamount to gripping a lifeless-corpse. She had to double-check that he was still **alive**.

Yara was so fearful that at any given, second, he could slip into the beyond, from this place.

How could she save him? What could she save **in** him?

To see the devastation in his mouth…

Although, Theon's teeth had been crooked, imperfect; he had still harbored a radiant smile. Toothy, mischievous—unique to his personality. Reserved, only for her. Now…she would never know his smile again.

How could she **restore** his health, if she could not even feed him even, **simple** foods?

One crueler-yet thing, Ramsay did leave intact—was his ball-sac. Why that piece of him? Why his seed? Oh, but she soon came to find out.

When he told her of his urges—twitched—came—under her touch in the bathing tub.

How **cruel**, his existence has **truly** become.

All-the-while she nurtured him with tales of past secrets, she never before, told another living-soul, as she learned his sensitive area, anew—all she could think, was that she had no knowledge of whether her actions were causing further-humiliation…or untold pleasure.

She prayed to the Drowned God, for his pleasure. For, afterwards. Theon's body gave out in her lap.

For a horrid, instant—she thought him dead. Feared his **heart** had given out. She caught him as he slumped—dragged, horrified-fingers through, drenched-curls.

Thankfully, he had merely passed out.

Finally, tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She wept for the man she loved. For the **memory** of her Baby Brother. So full of life—seemingly **infallible**.

Determination to come into control of his birthright, led him to this. Had she accepted him—for what he became in his absence…Might things have gone **differently**?

Theon's form was so small. So, depleted in muscle—strength—mass; he could not have weighed more than eighty pounds. Without, difficulty, nor strain, Yara cradled him, same as she had, when he was an infant. Laid him back against the throw-rug.

Dried the bulk of his unconscious-form, with their softest-towel, then patiently, dressed him—minimally hoisting his arms (he made low-groans of evident pain even whilst unconscious) to draw the silkiest, fabric nightgown she owned, over his head.

He swam in the woven-fabric. Carefully, she carried him to lay upon her soft-sheets. Silently, she crossed to her side of the mattress. After a moment of contemplation, she hoisted the bear-furred blanket from just-beneath the woolen covers, (where she kept it hidden) then crossed back to his side. Laid it, fur-side down, so that his sensitive skin, might be spared roughness, from the less-tender feel of Iron-Island wool.

Tearfully, Yara smoothed coarse-fingers through dulled-hair strands. Afore, she leaned down—pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his cheek. She climbed underneath the warmed fur, alongside him. Bare-skinned. Unashamed.

Her head rested upon his chest. Arms draped over his stomach. "Stay with me, Baby Brother…P-Please do not leave me again…" Such a selfish thing to plead of him.

But she **meant** it.

Her heart would **break** if this is how she would be forced to remember him. Theon was nearly unrecognizable. And she longed to be given a chance, to attempt reparations toward him. Build him up so that he might die with some dignity. Self-respect. He deserved **that** much.

As promised; she gave him her arms. Embraced him—and fell to sleep.

* * *

**_Theon_**

Unconsciousness, churned into frightful-sleep. Nightmares would transcend into the variant crevices of his decimated-psyche. Dreams of Ramsay's face—knife dug, carved across bare-skin. Endless screams of torment, befell, weakening-lips. Until the countless terrors seized his heart. And imaginings of Yara came into focus.

How he **loved** her—**Missed** her.

Devastation, encroached on his mind.

Just as the final dig of a serrated-knife came—dull-green optics **jolted** open.

Darkness engulfed, fire-warmed chambers. Panic swarmed, as Theon attempted to recall where he was. Then, settled at the warm-pressed feel of Yara's tight-bodice, right up against his.

Softer fabric than Theon had known as Ramsay's prisoner, donned his skin. And upon further observation—silky-fur was pressed to his chilled-frame.

Somewhere—in his memory, laid the image of his own hands, trembling. Shaking. With an arrow, tightly held—locked—in place. Then, elation as the targeted creature fell in death. Blood-coated hands, skinned the coat of the bear.

These were the self-killed, furs he presented her with, prior to her departure from Winterfell.

Tears swarmed in his eyes, as realization that she not-only-kept, but slept underneath the furs he gifted her, came into view.

Suddenly, Theon felt saturation against the gown's fabric. Just where Yara's breasts touched his upper-torso. Explorative fingers sought the milky-wetness. Grazed, the bulge of her nipple. Pink, swollen—**leaking**.

The sight stirred him. Startled his innards—and made him **want**.

**Need**.

Yara moaned—though did not wake—at the contact. Suddenly, a **superior** need took-root. Literal-hunger. It plagued his empty-belly. Screamed for satiation. Blood-tang—thick on his tongue, reminded him of his ruined-teeth. Constant-throbs in his jaw, never alleviated.

Without contemplation, Theon lowered, hungry-lips to attach to the stretched-thing. Wincing—Theon sucked—drew heavy-mouthfuls of the substance down his dry-throat. Each slosh, provided a harsh, sting to bleed-heavy, gums, and infected-teeth.

Still—his hunger, outweighed every conscious thought.

He just wanted the pangs to draw to a close.

"T-Theon…Hm…Sweet boy…" Still sound-asleep, tired-tones slurred from soft-petals.

The lull of warm-milk, imbued with the coo of encouragement, only heightened, his urgency—his Impulsive-need for **her** loving-embrace. And reassurance, in even-toned, words.

Moments passed—only the sound of intense-suckles resounded. Until, the swollen-teat was deflated of milk—and ran dry. Greedily, Theon latched on to her other teat—beginning to draw milk from there, next.

With hazy-eyes, Yara began to rouse. Through cracked-open slits, she appeared to deduce, the situation.

Upon her recognition, sudden-embarrassment, pooled underneath Theon's skin. He withdrew, from the succulent, source of milk. Felt, vile for his own abhorrent, desperation.

"F-Forgive m-me…" He was **that** starved for proper-nourishment.

Yara appeared to regard the situation, through her sleep-filled, haze. Then reached out.

"There is nothing to forgive. I still feed our son, on occasion—he is such a sickly thing—so I keep a steady flow. Your body **requires** nourishment, Baby Brother. You can drink your fill, it will be wasted, otherwise."

Mortification proceeded to pulse through his system. Even sheer, mention of their son, feeding at her breast, made him squirrely. Milk from a woman's breast was meant for babies. Toddlers. Children. Any remnants of his pride, faded. He was reduced to hunger pangs, so dreadful—unbearable—he was even willing to partake in drastic measures—even feed at his sister's teat. Tentatively, his tongue lapped at the remnants of milk upon his lips. Still—Theon could not bear to look her in the eye.

His bony-thighs squeezed together—needful-stub, swelled, underneath the pale-white gown.

Yara quirked a brow.

Finally, awake enough to sit up, scratchy-fingers cupped his hollow-cheek. "Do not be embarrassed. Lay down."

Projected as a firm-order, Theon complied. So, used to caving under pressure, he permitted her guiding-hand to draw him back to latch-hold of her pointed, dripping-teat. Unabated.

Instinctively, his mouth-suckled, once more disregarding the pain. Only to make minute-whines. Pivotal-ruts, soon began, without conscious thought, against her thigh, as he suckled.

"You want to be **touched**, Baby Brother?" Indispensable-urges crept up the base of his spine. It was instinctual, now, for him to rut, for pleasure—Even when a leg merely-grazed his tattered-private region.

Ramsay instilled that shameful, reaction into his battered-form. Starved for affection, he recalled the fervent-gratification, she ravaged from him beneath heated-bath waters—and nodded—vigorously.

His swollen-ball-sac felt as though it were held underneath a constant, sweltering-fire.

Without need for clarification of just-**where** he might prefer her touch—Yara lowered her hand. Bunched, clean-fabric into her fist, to raise it up—bearing his lower-half. Cool-air, breezed across his swelled-stump. Her index-finger found the bunch of nerves at the top—squeezed—Rubbed. Kneaded—Tender-flesh until he was beside himself with waves of recurrent, intoxication.

"Like **that**? Hm? How does **that** feel, Brother?" Hot, wisps of her breath sounded in whispers, against his ear-shell. Reddening-bodily, Theon's vocal-chords, vibrated, moans parting. Thick with approval. It felt unconceivably-**good** to be touched, after so much agony—this was **all** he wanted.

Reassurance. Love. Trust.

He longed for it in every muscle—every flimsy-bone—in his entirety.

His suckling-loosened, around his lips. Jaw-slackened a bit, as euphoria set in, drool spilled from the corner of his mouth. Tongue-lapped, lazily at her milk-drenched nipple. As her strong-fingers tethered into his mangled, hair-strands. Keeping him hard-pressed at her milk-gorged, bosom. Breaths came in shaky-pants as tremors-induced—bodily. Words refused to come—all he could think on—was the **need**. Euphoric-bursts, recurred, behind traumatized-eyes.

Her nurturing-arms, only clung tighter. "That is, it, you going to come apart for me?" Total-need took over, slightly-livened from the drawls of milk, bone-thin arms, splayed her thighs. Unable to withstand—her nude-form so near—yet—unattainable.

He swatted away her hand, without conscious-thought. And **took** what his body screamed for.

Theon rubbed his swollen-bits, just **there**, against the hot-dripping, **heat** of her gash.

Both of their moans combined. Sweat-glistened upon them both. Drool coated her bosom where his tongue still lapped for milk, crippled-hands, attempted to work her—kneaded her upper-thighs—whilst he clutched as tight as he could to her form.

He clenched his eyes shut, in shame—as he rutted, like the hound Ramsay **trained** him to be.

All track of time—departed—all that remained was the sound of their noises.

Intimate. Needy. Together.

His seed spilt from his taut, ball-sac. Her juices, coated his needy-stub, and pelvis.

Stars, flashed behind, closed-eyelids.

Theon went boneless in her hold. Such a pitiful creature he has become. His skin crawled with the agony of these desperate. Deprived, acts. Once breath recaptured, within weak-lungs. Tears, shadowed, black-ringed optics. With swift-action, Theon avoided eye-contact—then, tugged down the swimmingly, ill-fitted gown.

How sick—**depraved**—Ramsay **conditioned** him to be.

"Ya-aa…I s-should not h-have **ravaged** y-you. F-Forgive me. How **d-disgusted** you must be." Theon's bone-curbed physique was unhealthy. Even, with breastmilk nestled in his gurgling-belly. Ramsay warned him—no female **could** want him. **Never** again.

He was a cripple—inhuman. A **creature** of ill-fated design.

"T-Theon, no…I could **never**—" Reaching-hands sought to draw him back.

Theon jerked clear. Stumbled from the sanctuary of body-warmed, bed-things. Suddenly, feeling so vulnerable. His **most** vulnerable.

"T-The things R-Ramsay did t-to me. H-How he made me b-beg—" Realization of what he nearly, outright **admitted**—He retched—thankfully, managing to keep what little nourishment he salvaged from milky-teats, down in the process.

"Y-You asked me to b-beg you…s-succumb…" She held no understanding of just how **mortifying**, such connotations were to his abuse-addled, mind.

"Theon…" She was off the bed—across the room—and inches from his face in a blink.

His twanged-back hunched—eyes, downcast.

"What has he done to you? What atrocities?" Thumbs brushed tears across, blood-drained cheeks.

He shuddered.

"E-Enough. H-He did **enough**, Ya-aa. Enough s-so that I know w-we cannot be together, a-anymore. I m-meant what I s-said, Ya-aa. I c-came to d-die. Not to l-live. Not l-like this." Defeat was written into those hazel-optics that he loved—more than **life**. More than air.

If she only knew how he ached to have things return to the way they were. Had Ramsay not emasculated him—**humiliated** him. Ceaselessly **degraded** him, until the memories taunted him even in his dreams—there **might** have been a **chance**. A single **hope** at recovery.

But Theon suffered.

Every minute. Every second.

"You cannot **die**…Not like this, Baby Brother. P-Please…" Tears cracked in her voice. Arms reached out to envelop him.

Sensual touches, traveled the length of his spine. Shoulders. Neck. Rough-fingers delved within, gnarled muscle. Flesh. Theon's knobbed-knees almost gave way.

"I do not **care**, if you are broken. I will **fix** you. I promise. Let me?" Crackled-tones, eased his mind. Whilst amorous-touches consumed his frame.

"Ya-aa…"

"That is an **order**. You are not **allowed** to die. Promise me. Promise you will **not** die." Her tone changed. Became authoritative—demanding—the same tone she used upon him when first he returned. The same imposing-tone, Ramsay used on him.

Theon cringed. Jerked back from her hold.

"Y-You **want** m-me to s-suffer…? Y-You **order** it o-of m-me?" Feebly, Theon bowed his head. An outward sign of his submission. Mind-transcending elsewhere. He should never have returned. A bit of comfort—**pleasure**—could not mend the **permanent** breaks in his bones. Nor the tears in his muscle-tissue made by unforgiving, blade cuts. Stripped of dignity—of everything he held dear—his heart was expected to endure **further** torment? In the name of **making** him better?

"I **order** you to live." She reached for him again—Theon jerked backward—took a **misstep**—and fell. Hard stone, met his back. Skin ached—**everywhere**. Throbbed.

Excruciating pain surged throughout, raw-nerves. Seared his skin. Agonized, Theon ignored her arms—extended to help. Could only hear the **rush** of blood pound in his ears.

Struggled to stand—and (somehow) made it to her king-bed.

Drew himself up, only to settle back upon the sheets.

"I p-promise…" Too broken to **say** anything else, Theon turned his eyes away from her. All gratification from moments passed—gone. Any relief, comfort—safety he felt—vanished with it.

His wrist throbbed from the fall—but he paid it no mind.

With, his last source of comfort, stripped away. Nothing else mattered.

Why could she not just **hold** him? Like she **promised** to. Tell him it was **okay** to leave? He stayed for **her**—**only** her.

* * *

**_Yara_**

Somewhere—deep down. Yara knew better than to 'order' Theon to live. In the delicate-reaches of her heart—she **knew**.

But she refused to let her heart, veer her toward the conclusion that Theon was irreparable.

When she had woken to feel him suckling at her teat, it was the first bit of hope she retained for his eventual, rejuvenation. Resolutely, she came to the conclusion she would nurture him each day—with her breastmilk.

Same as she had, **little** Theon. When born, their son had been the weaker-twin. Less agile. Sickly. She feared he might die—on more than one occasion. Still, she enticed him to suckle if weakness, or sickness—came to call. She would pinch pink-nipples, deplete the milk, each day. Multiple times—in order to keep the flow, steady. Strong.

Yara had grown softer around rough-edges, when their twins were born. Belief that she would never lay eyes upon Theon again—made her soft—tender—for their children. They deserved a comforting mother—the way Yara, and Theon's had been. Soft. Warm. **Gentle**.

But Theon did not respond to comfort **properly** now. He had only pleaded for death—and woke her in need—only to decide his need was unwarranted—Disgraceful.

No. She decided in **that** moment—she had to revert. Tough-love was the single-most factor, Theon responded to, now.

She had to **attempt** it.

* * *

Days passed. Darkness was all that could be conceived behind those once lively, sea-green optics. The sea vanished from their shade. Now, their tinge was malachite—sometimes bleaker still, than that. Moments after his fall, a splint was wrapped round his bone-thin, wrist. Where the fragile, undernourished cartilage had cracked—then swelled. Theon had barely seemed to recognize, the damage inflicted. Was his **constant** pain so great—a mere **fractured** bone went unnoticed?

She permitted the Maester to assess the damage to every aspect of his mangled, frame. Pleaded with him to fix what he was able. Leave what could not be. Stripped of silken-fabric. Theon was laid bare, upon a settee, alongside the bed. Pleading optics landed upon her. Besought her. The Maester's points of concern laid with Theon's blistered feet. Sunburnt skin. Decimated teeth. Malnutrition. And improperly mended bones. Especially those of his feet. Infection could end his life.

He persisted the bones would need to be rebroken, then set properly. In order to properly heal. Yara reluctantly agreed. Although, Yara knew the detriment of tying him down—he was strapped to the settee with thick leather. His bones set to be rebroken first.

She compelled herself to witness, Theon's agonized shouts through a cloth gag. As bone, after bone was methodically, rebroken. Watched—Petrified as he made a puddle of urine underneath him from the pain. Drifted somewhere between unconsciousness—and wakefulness. Despite milk of the poppy being administered to him—Unimaginable pain still overcame him.

When the hours of bone-breakage were at a close, and the cloth gag was removed. Blubbering, pleas for mercy stung her mind. She mercifully, dissuaded the Maester from yanking out his teeth—She did not believe his strained-heart could suffer much more.

Theon instead, was cleansed of urine—bandaged properly, then moved to the silken-bedcoverings. Where the Maester applied a tincture of herbs across, blistered feet, in an attempt to prevail against infection.

His swathed-wrist, rested upon a feather-pillow. Feet also propped, upon feathered pillows.

Afterwards, Theon would sit still—too still—for hours. Recede into his mind. Where things must only be **more** agonized. Tears would stream down either cheek. She would wipe them, attempt to ease him. He would **flinch** away. As though burned. **Refuse** to look her in the eye. Especially, upon the Maester's reappearance, each eve, to reapply the tincture to scabbed-feet.

She had to order him to her breast. Each time—he caved when her calm-voice, turned **stern**.

Like a kicked-puppy, Theon would suckle from her. Until, pink-teats were depleted—then roll (best he could with a severely broken, and hurting body) upon his side—away from her. It stung; to know her brother **resented** her. But in retrospect—she could not fault him for it. She must seem a monster to him, now. Like **Ramsay**.

But she had **hope**—one day—he would view her actions as **warranted**. Merciful. So that he might **live** once more. Not as a shell—but as a **man**. No longer to hobble on twisted-feet, nor breathe with strain due to cracked-ribs. But walk normally, again. Breathe—normally.

Their children would visit him. Climb up on the woolen-blankets. Seek answers to questions. Plead for stories. Wonder about scars that lined the patches of marred-skin, their eyes **could** view poking out—spaces the gown did not cover.

Even with them—there was no spark. No light.

Just **oblivion**.

She feared his mind might never reunite. That he saw her actions as a **betrayal**.

He let them touch as they would. Hug on him. Curl up with him—but **never** Yara. He shied from Yara. She felt the **sting**—each time he **rejected** her. That sensation, never faded.

The Maester removed his splint. And the other material from his feet—and ribs within a few months. With the use of his body again, Theon would spend his time on his right side—faced away from the windows. Eyes would stare, endlessly—into the fiery-hearth.

Yara only yearned for Theon's betterment. If only **he** could see it, too.

Each time she left their chambers—she would find a place where she could be alone—and **sob**. Her heart was broken. For Theon—for what he **became**. For what Ramsay did to him. Most of all, for what **she** had had to permit done to him—to **save** him. Relief was unattainable. His life, seemed even **further** from reach.

* * *

**_Theon_**

Disbelief garbled Theon's decimated-psyche. The singular thought that permanently, plagued his haunted-mind, was—**Why**?

What had he done to Yara that she would punish him so **cruelly**? Was it his mind-boggled moment of unclarity? Upon the night she attempted his futile-rescue?

Ramsay had relished soul-breaking, punishments, most. Gained sick thrill from Theon's woeful-pleas—his debauched-shame. But what did Yara gain?

She was cold. Worse than cold—**merciless**.

Pyke's, Maester removed the use of his wrist, over a **minimal** fracture. He made little pleas with Yara to remove the splint—she **refused **to cave. Insisted he don the wretched-thing. (Countless fractures gave him grief at any given time, due to malnutrition, permitting his bone density to break down.) Why splint just **this** one? Because it swelled? Was **new**?

Oh, but it was **not** just the one—how he **prayed** it had been.

No.

She removed any illusion of control he retained over his already—**mistreated**—form. Permitted him strapped to a cushioned-settee, only to have every bone, ever broken inside of him—rebroken. He willed himself to **die**. A thousand times over. Screamed into the gag. Pleaded to the Drowned God. Pleaded to the **Maester**—Yara—Pled, even for his body to give out. Stripped. On display. Poked. Prodded. Tortured. Every distressing memory **ever** formed at Ramsay's behest—**recurred**. Right here. In chambers that used to bring him comfort. Sanctity. He drooled. Wet himself. Screamed until his voice was lost. No one helped. Not even Yara. It was **she** that persisted he endure this torture.

Afterward, the agony was so unbearable—Theon could not move. Nor speak. It was all he could do to exist. Milk of the Poppy did naught to soothe what ailed him. No place on his skin was unaffected. Instead, he **throbbed** from head to toe. Tears fell day—and night. Unabated. Unpreventable. He was **bodily** broken.

Initially, Theon reunited with Yara—for **comfort**. Affection. As he gave in to his body's endless, painful-afflictions. None of the short-lived pleasure from day one—**Comfort**—he sought in her warm-arms, overrode this **hellish**, existence, he knew now.

Her tone—**frightened** him. When she would snap at him. Strict. Unkindness. It made him shake. Rattle. Then, finally, **concede**.

Crippling-fear of punishment; **stabbed** him. What might she do to him if he did **not** comply?

Would she hurt him? Belittle him? Return the Maester, to tear out his **pittance** for teeth?

It was his survival-instinct. Ramsay instilled the seven-hells into his mind—Seared it into his very core.

Suckling, began to incur, excruciating-pain to infected-gums. Broken-teeth would **twinge**, with each gush of thick-milk that flowed upon them. It took everything inside of him—to **finish**. The intense-gratification, Theon attained that **first** time he hungrily suckled at her breast—had long-since, passed. He regretted that **initial** urge—deeply. And through his excruciating pain—no **pleasure** could be sought.

No longer did he throb-heavy with need from his scarred-stub. He was **not** roused—it felt like **punishment**. Unique—**unkind**—discipline.

Then, afterward, she seemingly, appeared to expect him to **nuzzle** her—At least at first. Seek comfort in her arms—like **before**. She offered—but Theon no longer felt **ease** there—He felt distinct terror. What once he fantasized about—reeled over and over in the synapses of his mind; (After Ramsay's countless, decimation of all that he was) now felt hollow—Inserted distress. After all, he had watched through bleary-vision for hours as she witnessed his torture, cruelly. Such an image would never depart from his psyche.

She never **ordered** him to cuddle her. What remained of him would have indisputably-ruptured, if she had. Even the bear-furs that he gifted her, made his stomach **churn** with sick. Though they were soft on his skin—he no longer felt **joy** when he saw them. Only misery. He had discarded them—upon her side of the bed—Made it known, he desired no **part** in the feel of them—Nor the **sight** of them.

A life he could **never** have again—never **see**—never **grasp**.

When all confining bandages were removed, freedom rejoined his body—but he was **not** free.

She willed him to fight—He **existed**.

In just as much agony as he previously had.

His body latched on to her. Stayed at **her** insistence.

Because despite **all** of the pain she ordered, inflicted, upon him. Theon still regarded her with affection, deep down, —still **loved** her.

Yara would watch him use the privy—stare, intently, at him whilst he relieved his weakened-bladder. Occasionally, he managed **not** to wet the mattress—**most** nights—Others, he was unable to hinder it. Did not wake, when the **need** arose. Or could not move his battered-form quick enough.

Each time **that** happened—Theon expressly-wished to die. The comfort Yara attempted to bestow upon him—made his belly-heave. He sought relief in the licking-flames of the hearth, instead. Let his mind dwindle from this **hell**.

Yara seemed content to keep him here—barely functioning—**humiliated**, almost daily—and exhausted. Most of all—extinguished. **Lifeless**.

She let the twins visit him, **constantly**. Let them ask deep-probing questions. It broke his mind, to answer them. So **many** questions—but they were **curious**. Innocent—everything he could never be again. He let them jump on his ache-laden form. Gave no complaint, when they nuzzled-near. Slept.

In another life, Theon might have been a father to their babies. Now—he was **useless**.

Surely **not**, a father.

This was near-to as wretched, as hanging from the saltire. Flayed. Tortured. Lost.

Only, he was lingering—ached with extensive trauma—and unrestrained (since the rebreak of bones) by tethered-ropes. Just his own broken-heart.

"How **long**, Yara?" Cracked, nearly-depleted vocals called out to her.

Having just completed another **forced**, breastfeed—she no longer, even **offered** him her strong-arms, thereafter. Finally appeared to understand, he would not seek comfort there. Bleakly, green-optics, followed her swift-movements. Already, guided off the bed—Jerkin drawn over her head.

She turned. "How long until, what?" Stony-eyes met his.

He flinched. Blood-coated tongue, timidly lapped all trace of the creamy-mixture from chapped-lips.

"Will y-you m-make me live t-this way…" Brokenly, Theon avoided, fierce-hazel optics.

"I am trying to make you **better**, Theon. I am not trying to…" Something flickered, in her stony-features.

Internally, muddled thoughts, longed to question, her intent. **Motive**.

But outwardly, Theon feared this new, stoic—uncaring, side of her.

"You sought **comfort** when you came back here, Theon. You made pleas for my arms to hold you." Green-eyes shied toward the woolen-blankets. Unwilling to glance up. "**Why** is that, Theon? Exactly?"

Was that another order? Flesh-crawled. Tears, instinctively welled in defeated-eyes, every time she left after he fed from her teat. (When he rejected the bear-fur, soundlessly, she had folded it—and carried it from these chambers.) Tonight, did not differ. But there was a deeper-meaning, this eve. Contemplating his inability to seek comfort, from her—caused him pain.

He fidgeted. "I t-told y-you…"

"Tell me **again**."

Stinging-tears, fell. Her stern voice only made him startle, more.

"I j-just wanted to b-be held…to b-be at peace. Your a-arms were s-safe…" Bone-thin fingers, whisked aside a tear.

"I woke to find you at my breast, of your own accord. And you rutted against me, found so much pleasure in the act, you were throbbing. You pleaded for me to rub you down there. Why now do I have to force you to drink? Why do you no longer see my arms as comfort, Theon? If you did before? Why do you no longer throb, and lust when you feed?"

Horrified—by her words—by how degraded they made him feel—How small. He burned with the shame of it. Was she so blind to what she perpetually stole from him? His safety. His trust…**Everything**?

"It no longer f-f-feels good…Y-Ya-aa. The milk h-hurts my t-teeth…" Sobs rattled his fragile-bones. "You let the Maester…tie m-me down…break my b-bones…h-hurt me…And y-your touch is r-rough…your b-body used to arouse m-me…so I w-would throb…n-now I am a-afraid…You t-took away the only g-good feeling I had l-left. Your arms w-would protect m-me…Now t-they inflict p-pain. And your w-words…you o-order me…l-like Ramsay d-did. I j-just wanted you to l-love me…I r-realize now…y-you cannot p-possibly love m-me, anymore…You j-just want me to h-hurt…When will I h-have suffered e-enough for y-you? I just w-want the h-hurt to g-go away…I know h-he plans t-to tear o-out my t-teeth tomorrow…w-will you h-have him s-strap me down a-again…?" Tattered pieces of his mind whittled away. Fear encroached on pallid-skin. Finally, harsh—true—words came from his conflicted-lips.

He willed her to understand. He **sought** no pleasure—because there was **no** pleasure **to** seek.

The stub between, bony-thighs, no longer stirred. Loneliness rooted within his churned-belly, but he could **not** reach out—and **take**. The pain overrode **any** comfort—Need. Previous, Theon had glanced upon Yara as an abject-source of commendable, love. Now—daunted, by what she might seek from his battered form next—Theon's scarred-stub, refused to react. Despite heavy, fullness of his ball-sac.

Cemented-shock, burst throughout, stormed-chambers of a weakened-heart—as Yara climbed back upon woolen-bedding. Slid, tender-fingers through, dull-curls. Chills stormed his achy-spine. He made no move to withdraw from her; his sobs were too heavy-strung.

"Listen to me, Theon. I am **not** torturing you. I permitted the Maester to do as he would so that you might live, again. Your teeth **need** to come out…Your pain will never draw to a close otherwise." She took-in a shake-laden breath. "Nor am I—will I **ever** be, **Ramsay**. I **love** you. With **everything** I have. I love **you**…hear me, Baby Brother. I am in **love** with you. There will only—**ever**—**be** you. If you leave this world—I will ache in **every** piece of my soul, because I **love** you. Since you returned to me, I have done no less, than endeavor to save your life. I feed you at my breast, so that you might grow strong, once more. We pledged our lives—our souls to each other, that last night we joined together. I have **never** forgotten my vow to you. I birthed our babies so that I might retain a **part** of you. Before that, I risked their very existence, in an attempt to salvage your life—Brother—ask yourself, is there anything in this world that I would not do for you? For you to believe such about me…? To believe me **capable** of torturing you for thrill…?"

Theon **saw** her.

For the first time—since their reunion—he **truly**, saw her.

Those chestnut-optics. Worrisome—tear-streaked, weathered-cheeks. She was in tatters—alongside of him. Remorsefully—shame of a vast reaching-breed, slung around his heartstrings. Why had it never registered that she might be sincere in her stern-attempts to **restore** him? Though misguided—sincere. Not once—did he fathom, her genuine-drive to help.

Was he so fractured-internally? Mentally? He no longer could view things as they **were**? Not as he **perceived** them?

"Y-Ya-aa…" Reduced to humble-disgust with his own bred-weakness—Theon was at a loss.

"What you neglect to fathom is just how **much**, I missed you, these past four years. And the ten **prior** to that." Theon's obliterated-heart, strained.

Suddenly, her crumbled-pieces were on display. Just, alongside his. There was no her, versus him. It was all relevant. They were **both**—ruptured. He was so caught up in his own untended-aguish—there was no view of **hers**. No capacity with which to perceive hers, neither.

"I n-never told you all of it. **Never**. You would have trampled on my **weakness**. Sought a grip on my heart—and yanked, in order to take **back** what you deemed I stole from you." Pained-whispers stole into his ear-shell.

How cruel, Theon had been when he reunited with the Iron-salt of his true home. Arrogance—it was his rapid-fire, downfall.

Ramsay saw to that. Took his cock—stripped that arrogance. Flayed him.

Theon remembered. All of it.

"I was w-wretched t-to you, Ya-aa…I w-will never **deny** my w-wretchedness. But I know n-not what you s-speak, of…"

Sloppily, velvety-soft petals, met bit—uneven—lips. Sore from jagged-teeth nubs, abusing the skin, with worry. Theon returned the kiss. Gave her a portion of his trust. This Yara—he did not dread. Rather-entrusted her; with his sensitive-form.

* * *

**_Yara_**

Tough-love had decimated Theon's uniquely-explicit-trust in her—alone.

One tragic-incident that she never revealed to another living-soul, however—Plagued her. Marked her as the hardened—individual—she had been upon his arrival, hence, when first, he returned.

Not even, their repulsive-father was made aware, of what she suffered.

Retracted, firm. Completely. From aptly, swollen-petals, Yara sought-out, his gaze.

Her stomach lurched-heavy, within her bodice.

Thumbs curved at hollow-edged cheeks. Dragged-upon brisk-stubble. Breath came in uneven, pants. As she gathered the courage to speak to him, of trauma long suppressed. For him to understand—truly-understand—he **must** be made aware.

"Do you recall times of old? Innocent, needful, little kisses? Promises made, that could not be kept?" She did not await his response. "I **do**." Shivering—She forced, heavy-vocal cords to proceed. Onward. "We touched—You took from between my thighs…"

Theon shivered. Jolts, rattled him.

"I w-will **never** f-forget…" Solemnly, warm, cupped fingers, brushed—wisps of strait-laced hair to tuck, behind poignant-ears. She leaned into the much-needed touch of comfort.

"You put your child inside of me…I know not when—which time our rutting came to fruition—but a babe was conceived." Crackled-voice, barely attained an octave above a whisper. The time had transpired—when the hidden truths need emerge—even this morbid—unforgiving truth.

Nearly, impossible-width, rooted in fragile-optics. Stained-heat tainted, normally sickly-pale skin. Yara dreaded his reaction—had since his **first** abrupt-reappearance upon Pyke.

"N-No…" Denial. She surmised in, confounded-optics. "I was b-barely in my t-tenth year…y-you had not even b-bled…"

"I did not bleed, due in **full**, to our incessant need for each other. Flesh met flesh, each night, Baby Brother. We sought gratification—we were insatiable—**together**."

He comprehended the truth. Must, know it in his bones. His stamina, had been, **legendary**. Impulsive. Raw. Not once—had innocent-lips regarded the **consequences** of their '_games'_; their impersonation of man—and wife.

Apparent dread to so much as seek an answer—passed over, tired-features.

Still—She knew the next, fragmentary-question to come. Held her breath—subconsciously.

"W-What became of—" Theon choked, feebly, on the words.

Rivulets of salty-essence, made streaked-lines down either cheek.

"I was **thirteen**, Theon…I just lost our mother. Our brothers, narrowly **survived** the loss of you, and Father was so cold. So absent…"

Hesitantly, Yara sought reflection, in the fire-flames. Tears blurred her vision—hands, with missing-fingers, grazed her cheeks. Drew chestnut-optics, back to malachite-greens,

"I **lost** it, Theon—" She paused, sucked in lung-fulls of stagnant-air. "I bled through my sheets one eve. I knew it was in there—I was not thin, back then—but I had not kept food down in the mornings, for **months**. I thought since you had been stolen away, at least I might have something of you, **left**. It was foolish. I never managed to tell you, **before** the siege. I was afraid you would be peeved about it. I went outside, and I birthed the child in the grass. He was **misshapen**, and so tiny. But he was **ours**, Theon. We **made** him." Her cheek pushed against his chest. Theon's heart beat a tattoo into thin-bone. She heard it.

Images of a twisted babe must have, invaded his mind. Skin pale-dead, form curled in on itself. She felt, shudders transverse up his spine.

"W-What did you d-do with him?" His vocals trembled; shook. Words jumbled. Lisped.

"I buried him, beneath the Earth. I could not risk his cage washing ashore." Offering the dead to the Drowned God was the way of their people. But even as a youth she knew under such circumstances—there could have been no **ulterior** way. It **haunted** her still.

"I w-wish I could have s-stayed, Yara. I would have s-stayed for you. I w-wished a t-thousand times I could h-have stayed." Saddened words, befell, tired-lips. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, to match his.

The actions she inflicted these past weeks, were not for his suffering—never that. Yara refused to forsake her hold upon him—because she was fearful of being **left** alone. It was her hardest-set edges, that refused to admit as much, **vocally**—but he must know. Now.

"I was so afraid, that I would lose another pregnancy, to secure your rescue. But you were in pain—You needed me, so I came for you. I tried, Baby Brother." Nose-tucked to chilled-flesh, Yara pleaded for him to sympathize. Understand.

"When I birthed our twins, Little Theon was **so** frail, and weak. He is still frail. Still weak. The Maester has warned that he may not live into his manhood. Might die any day. The nutrition in mother's milk can make him strong. It can make you strong too, Theon. I will carry you both if I must. But please…Try to get better. Walk with me along the beaches of Pyke…Feel a bit of sun on your flesh. Leave these chambers—just try, Theon. For me. Please. Now that your bones have set properly, you have a chance at some normalcy." All she had left—were drawn-out words.

Pleas for his former-tenacity to overcome his shortcomings.

"Ya-aa…I am so very tired…My body has **nothing** more to give…"

Sobs choked forth. Tremble-laden, fingers clenched into silky-soft fabric of his nightgown. "Y-You think I d-do? I am **begging** you, Theon. Please. You know that I do **not**, beg…You **know** it. If you force me to endure you **leaving** this world, this way, I will break. I will break apart at the seams, and it will be **your** fault! I cannot take anymore. Do you **hear** me? Please…If you **ever** loved me…If a piece of your heart ever **really** belonged to me…You would use that spark of Iron, salt, and steel in your blood—and **fight**! Fight to **live** with me. If not **for** me, then for **your** babies. For **our** children! Theon. You have a **reason** to fight. Choose to fight…"

She wrecked. Right in his arms—came apart.

Finally, unable to withstand the intense-pressure of being stone-solid. For everyone. Including, Theon. Tough-love only tore them further asunder. Repaired next to nothing. Gave no recourse. Only suffering.

Yara **tired** of suffering.

With a final effort, she stole a kiss from icy-lips. Dragged her tongue, thick-needy over his lesser pout. Sought his acceptance. His raw, passionate—drive. The might she knew he carried inside of him. She had **known** from the first moment he held a bow, and arrow in hand. Poised between her—and these chamber doors, against whatever army laid on the opposing side.

He was a fighter—He would **not** perish this way.

* * *

**_Theon_**

Jolts surged. Laced. Burned.

Right up his spine. Through to his heart—awakening his skin. She pleaded for him. Begged.

Half drawn upon his lap. Rough-kissing ensued with such force—Theon whimpered raw in his throat. No stubbornness still-resided within his frame. Now—all he desired was to provide her, happiness. Light.

Same as she provided to him in their youth.

He **would** fight.

If she demanded it of him—so then it **shall** be.

To know that she lost their baby—miscarried—endured the weight of that **alone**, all prior to adulthood—Wrecked him internally. Unable to overlook, the distress signals Yara relinquished all around him. Finally, Theon had to look to her—to **understand**.

To **feel**.

The aches incurred on his once-formidable frame became so, due in part, to his fractured nature. But also, his reluctance to stretch the muscles of his body. Lying between woolen-blankets only had the distinct, consequence of leaving him feeble.

When soft-petals crashed over his—Theon reacted. Returned her kisses in full. Expended his frame. Used the burst of need, deep-set, underneath rippling-muscles, to pursue her. Yara did **not** beg. It was not in an Iron-Islanders blood. Their people took. Raped. Reeved. Love was shown differently, here. If love **existed** in these dreary Islands, at all.

"I will f-fight…Ya-aa. For y-you…" Reassurances parted swollen-lips. Thumbs wiped clear, the accumulated wetness upon Yara's cheeks.

Despite the considerable, ache throughout his bones. Theon felt the weight of remorse, override all else. Instilling, confidence for the first time, since his reunion with Yara.

Kisses, inserted with heat. Ignited just underneath the surface—and their kisses mounted, as bone-thin fingers pushed underneath, the leather-jerkin. Sudden, necessity to claim—take—as he once did. Surfaced.

For the first time, since torture at the Maester's hand ensued, Theon felt lust. His stub-inflamed with boiling-blood. Hips made instinctive, motions to rut up—just between covered-thighs that lingered, tight, up above.

"I never want you to fear me again, Baby Brother. Never." Dulled-hues, bore within hers. Theon yearned to latch onto her light. Intoxication, surged throughout his bloodstream—Heat broiled in his belly.

"I w-will try." Fear was part of who he was, now. Despite, extensive-desire to be near to Yara—the same as it had always been; Theon felt the call of his blood to be remanded into the ocean-waves. His suffering was part of him, too.

"Do you want to be touched, Baby Brother?" The words excited him. Tore through his heartstrings. Surged him with fiery-need. Embarrassment, lit his cheeks. His nerve-endings screamed for touch—but his blood-swollen, stub, yearned for something far deeper, still.

"N-No…I w-want to feel y-you." Confusion, flittered over her expression. Eyes locked with his. Searched, with wonder.

Theon made no move to respond, verbally. Speech was difficult for him. And only caused further aches to his jaw. Instead—He flipped her. Let her back meet silken-sheets. Poured kisses over her petals. Drowned in the sensation of being atop her. Remaining fingers struggled to unlace her breeches. Then discard her jerkin—and smallclothes. Until she was exposed. Thighs-spread. Heat emanating.

"Theon?" Questioning tones were silenced by the collision of his lips—with hers.

Shame enough pooled through every aspect of his blood—with what he had to do, in order to seek gratification, but he could not fathom, her questions—on top of it.

Crippled-fingers drew up his nightgown. His iron-swelled, part touched right to her broiled-gash. Sucked air in through broken-teeth at the feel of their connection.

This was the closest he would ever come again, to being joined with her. With abandon—Theon rutted. Skin to skin. Shed, his gown, so that she could feel all of his broken-scarred parts. And kissed.

Their moans compiled. Skin seared with the burn of friction. And he found her elusive-pearl. Made certain to ground down—hard—against it. He would make her come apart.

Needed her to come apart.

They trembled together. His pace was rough—sweat-beaded on his pale-skin—and tears leaked from his eyes as explosive-pleasure asserted itself.

Then—He felt it.

Release burst through every aspect of his frame. Seed spilled. Puddled. Heaped. His arms wound-about her midriff. Whimpers met the back of her throat. Muddled together. She shook—bodily—right along with him.

When he drew up for air. He felt instant-shame emerge. To spring up through his belly. It was there. Ever-present, due in full to Ramsay's words whenever he would spend. Filthy, degraded on his knees, seed-spilt from swollen-balls—He would always refer to his endeavors as those of a desperate-mindless—hound. Always.

Theon did not want to be a hound. He did not want to feel powerless to resist his own cravings. His urgency. His stub made it so that he could only hump for pleasure. He could never feel a woman's cunt trap him. Never hear Yara in the throes of orgasm from his, filling her. No. He had only this…

The ability to spill all over them both. And leave his war-torn, mind—in a horrendous state. It was trauma that made him feel this helpless. And Ramsay.

Always Ramsay.

Theon retracted from her kiss-swollen petals. Moved, (without grace) from atop her form.

"Theon? What is wrong?" He felt her shift. Jerked as her hand—met his shoulder. Rubbed intricate-circles, into his skin.

"I want to feel you, Ya-aa…I d-do not wish to b-be a hound anymore…" Truthful utterances, came forth.

"You are not a hound, Theon. You are my brother. A man. Flesh, and blood. Ramsay can never take that away from you." She sounded so certain.

"He d-did, Ya-aa…He t-took everything f-from me. Do y-you know how he m-made me f-feel things? He l-let me rot on a saltire f-for weeks. F-Feed me p-pittance. Cut c-chunks from m-my skin… J-Just when I t-thought I might d-die—he would p-pull me off…O-Offer me his l-leg, and I w-would hump. Until I could find s-satiation." Ashamed, Theon would no longer meet her eye. "And I w-was starved f-for affection…f-for something to subdue t-the pain. So, I w-would do it…E-Every time, until I c-came apart…I a-am a hound Ya-aa…I c-cannot help it…E-Even now…Your t-touch is n-not enough. I n-need to feel y-you…"

He could sense Yara's tensed muscles—Could practically hear the gears of her mind, turning.

Theon's arm extended. Reached for his discarded-gown. Yara's hand landed upon his wrist. Prevented him from attaining the garment.

"You are not a hound." She reaffirmed, clear-concise tones emitting from pink-petals. Her fingers remained around his bony-wrist. Whilst her other hand slid down, between spread-thighs. Found his swollen-nerves, shrouded in scarred-tissue. He whined. Felt her thumb-pad track little circles around his still-swelled, nerve-bunch. You are a man. An Iron-Born man. And you need, the way all Iron-Born men do. It does not make you a hound, it makes you one of us. We take what we need. We give no apology for it. You needed to rut. So, you rutted. You took, Theon. That is not your shame, but your strength. Your ire. After all you endured. Your body needed—and it took. Remember that, Theon. When I need. I take, too. Remember our last night, before I departed Winterfell? How I took until you had nothing left to give me? Hm?" Still her thumb swirled, enchantingly, around his stub. Moans ignited. Instinct took root. His hips lurched up to meet her thumb as she worked him up.

Moans rumbled, low in hoarse vocal-cords. Skin burned with unspent heat.

"Y-Yes…" He would never forget.

"Touch alone will never sate an Iron-Born. We fuck, Baby Brother. We kiss. Rape. Rut. We are made stronger, because of our sins. Our need. Now you are not going to disappoint me, are you, Theon? You still need more. Your balls are still thick—and full—" Yara's other hand squeezed the hanging ball-sac. Indeed, it was full. He squeaked. "—They need to be emptied, I want you to rut—not until you spill once, but until you cannot spill anymore. And when you finish, I will hold you. And we will sleep. There will be no more talk of shame, or Ramsay. Not in our bed…Agree with me, Baby Brother. I want to hear you speak the words…"

Mind-boggled. Conscious thoughts twirled together. Skin-beamed with radiant heat. He squirmed underneath the feel of her touch. But he nodded.

She was right. No good came from thoughts of Ramsay—and he was Iron-Born. His blood drew him back here. Called him to the sea. To **this** Island. To Pyke—To **her**.

And he did need to take. She boiled him with every padded-thumbed touch.

"I p-promise…N-No more s-shame…j-just u-us…" Swallowing thick in his suddenly bone-dry, throat. Theon used what little compiled-strength his form held, in order to collide her with worn-sheets.

"Good. Now rut, Baby Brother. Rut until our sheets are stained with your seed."

She need not coax him further. He did as she asked.

Lost himself to untold-pleasure. Spilt until his balls were emptied—and kept rutting. Despite exhaustion. Sweat. Oversensitiveness. He made them both, shudder—quake with the proof of it.

Lost count of the number of times he spilled. But seed coated them, both.

His body was so worn by the end—all he could manage was to crash into her arms.

Darkness encroached upon him. And he gave in.

* * *

After that night, Theon made an attempt at life.

Ignored the addled-state of his psyche. Worked through the darkest instances of all Ramsay inflicted upon him. And leaned into Yara for strength.

The Maester pulled his ruined teeth. Afterwards, the gums healed—finally he was able to take in her milk without ailment. Each day he regained more strength than the last. With time, and patience, his ability to control his bladder increased, as he retaught his brain the proper signals. Although, some ailments could never be cured in him. Such as the constant ache from his muscles from the stretch of his arms, and legs up upon the saltire. Nor his skin's sensitivity to the sun, and coarse-material.

The rest, mended. Given time.

His mind repaired, and slowly, but surely, the laughter of their children made him joyful—not mournful of a time when he might have been their father.

He was an Uncle to them. Properly an Uncle.

Privately—He was their father. Taught his son, to use a bow, and arrow, to steady his movements. Just the same, as Theon himself had needed to train with a bow, and arrow to even out his body's precision. The children share the piece of his Weirwood bow. Kept it close.

Theon spent his nights with Yara—and his days recovering his strength. And when their father passed away, he stood alongside of her—as she took the Iron Islands. Claimed her rightful place—as the rightful heir, he could never be.

And Theon was never prouder, then in that moment.

Never.


	4. Epilogue Resolutions of Patterns

**_Epilogue; Resolutions of Patterns._**

* * *

_Only in the darkness_

_can you see the stars._

* * *

**_Theon_**

**_Seven Years Later_**

The sound of low-footfalls bounced off of heavily-trodden stone. The feel of crisp, clean air against his sensitive-skin made him feel light. Every day he would remind himself he was alive—because of Yara.

Her reassurance—Her touch—imbued light—into his flesh.

She was down upon the beach—where he was headed.

Nothing compared to the sand under his mangled-feet. Nor, the light that transcended from Yara's very presence.

He was nearly past his chambers, when sound traveled to his untrained-ears. Curiously.

Theon listened.

Leaned into the slightly cracked-open space. These were the chambers he had known since he was birthed into this world. He knew them well.

Reacquainted with them over the years. No one was supposed to be inside of them—now currently.

Just about to step in—He halted.

"You are to be **mine**, Alannys. I will pay the Iron-Price for you. Here. **Now**." Tones barely above a whisper filled disbelieving-ears.

Peeking in through the crack, Theon could view the sight of huddled forms, upon the layers of warm-woolen blankets. Sprawled upon the bear-furs, laid Alannys, arms pinned at the wrists. Skirts hiked to her midriff, blushed-redness coating either cheek. Little Theon sprawled atop her. Firm. Rough. With his eyes trained-intently, down into hers.

"We are Iron-Islanders, **Baby** Brother. If you **want** me, you must **take** with Iron." Assertively, her eyes flashed with daring. Little Theon did not backdown. Rather, collided his lips with hers. Fought. Strained for dominance—and won.

Theon watched, wide-eyed. Flushed with sudden, heat, at the sight of them. Compiled as they were. Nearly set to repeat, the actions of his own, with Yara.

Had Yara told them the tale of their first time? Rutting like wild-beasts, in the muck? Mud? Of Pyke grounds? How he paid the Iron-Price for her?

He thought of intervening. Expressing his disappointment in their atrocious behavior. But it was no less sinful, than what he took from Yara. Love to him was all linear. And upon further examination, Theon could plainly see the love shone, in both their eyes.

The same love, he saw in Yara's when he 'took' her that first time. It had never been a true Iron-Price that was paid, but merely their play at the Iron-Price. His stake on being a warm-blooded, Pyke, Lord.

Alannys melted under her brother's rough-touches. Spread her thighs wider, to better accommodate him, between them. With a moment of fidgeting with laced breeks. Little Theon managed to free himself.

Theon noted the size of his son's length. Acquired from his own genetics. Just before, he met with warm-wet, walls. Moans resounded in the room.

Ashamed for continuing to spy upon this private moment, between his children—he could not tear himself away.

Rather, watched with building pumps of his heart—with each little rut made upon the bedlinens. Skin met skin. Raw passion heated the area. And they descended into sloppy-ruts, until their respective-releases transpired. Toppled in a mound—boneless—Little Theon made sweet, whispers into Alannys', ear.

Hoarse, tired things. "I will **always** love you. Just as our Father loves our Mother."

Agreeable sounds came from tired, pink-petals. Fingertips traced through tussled, sandy-curls. Familiarly, trailing up and down the span of his spine. Kneading little whimpers from his throat.

How many times had she touched him this way before? Theon could not help but wonder, in silence. Tears welled in his green-optics, at the sight of their children, this way. Happy. Loving.

"I will always love you, too. But you are still **my** baby brother. You can pay the Iron-Price for me each day, and I will say the same." She reaffirmed.

Low growls emerged, "Not a baby…" He sighed.

"Mhm, You are. You were born ten minutes after me, that makes you a baby."

Theon sighed. Ignored tear-streams upon his cheeks. And headed out, toward the beach-sands. Felt the grains underfoot, listened to the pull of ocean-waves, and felt the mist-spray his face. But his mind was settled.

On one person.

Settled upon beach-sands, a single-hand grazed the beginnings of a bulge, over her abdomen. Eyes-closed, she appeared lost in pondering-thoughts. It took years of experiments, with the Maester (whom was sworn to his Queen's secrecy), and in the bedroom, but alas, they were able to conceive another baby. That little life was blossoming inside of her. Growing stronger—each day.

Theon wrestled her down. Taken by surprise, Yara laughed—moaned into his vigorous-kisses.

"What has become of you, Baby Brother?" Joyous words emitted, as she fell upon her back, onto the sands. The bulging-press of her belly met his lower-abdomen. His skin seared with need.

Lust.

It burned. His balls-bubbled. Broiled, with heat.

"I need you. I care not who sees." It took extensive time, but Theon finally managed to cure his stammer. Though the words were no less, unclear—unfortunately. Yara understood him, regardless. Always. Her eyebrow quirked.

The day was thick with mist. It was naught likely that any could see. Even Yara could barely see ten feet ahead of herself.

Theon did not wait for permission. Rather, tore down her breeches—followed by his own—and began to rut against her. Just there—in the sand.

Their moans joined. Skin pulsed. And memories of that day—what seemed like ages ago, now—careened into focus.

His skin clad to hers. Proclamations of claim over her bodice, on his lips. Vitality of youth clung to his skin. All of that had faded now. His hair was stricken, with gray-streaks. His body scarred, past recognition, and his words forever, garbled, without teeth to properly sound them.

But he still had, Yara.

She accounted for any youth—vitality—that was retained by his damaged-form.

And it was not until he emptied his balls over her fiery-hot, gash—that he finally, simmered down enough to speak, again.

Sprawled out on top of her. Dominance, surged within his emerald-optics. Instinctively, rough-yet gentle—fingers were already spanning his back. Rushing up to meet his gray-curls, and soothing his tired-muscles, everywhere she could reach.

"I caught our children, in our chambers. Little Theon paid the Iron-Price for Alannys." Whispered tones, barely befell his cracked-lips.

Yara only spread a smile upon her features. "Is that all, Baby Brother? They have been touching for quite a while. I knew he would claim her eventually. As you once claimed me." Unperturbed, Yara rolled her shoulders. "Did you interrupt them? You know how an Iron-Born gets when his balls are full." Light taunts proceeded from her. Chills curled up his spine.

His face flushed with heat. "I…No I did not interrupt them…You knew?!" Explicit-shock spanned his features. How had he not known? He had observed their growth for years now. Knew them both well.

Knew that Alannys was destined to be a fine, Lady, despite her inclinations to pick up a sword, and spat with the boys. She still regarded dresses as her chosen garment, over breeches, like Yara. And that, Little Theon, was an archer to be contended with—and were Theon still able to use a bow, and arrow himself, his son would have given him a run for his coin. He was bolder than Theon ever was, imbued with stubbornness, like a bull.

How had he disregarded their love for one another, as pure sibling love?

How had he missed so much?

As though able to read his mind, Yara teased, lightly. "Of course, I knew. You need not fret; I am their **Mother**. Our bonds are different. They **always** will be." Calm-fingers brushed lingering strands of hair from his forehead.

Theon nuzzled right at her neck. Sighed into her skin.

"Do you think we cursed our line to be this way, Yara? By loving each other?"

She sighed. Fingers-stilled upon his back, where she was still kneading tender-muscles.

"Do you feel cursed, Theon? Do you feel that Little Theon, and Alannys are cursed?"

He worked around the answer in his mind. Poked at it. Prodded. Until he came out on the other side. No less concerned, only at peace. His belly burned with heat at the thought of their upcoming babe. He could feel its tender-kicks from where his midriff aligned with hers.

"No." He finally mused. "I feel **blessed**. You saved me, even though I did not want to be saved. You still saved me, and I have seen so much, because of it. I feel alive, because you let me be alive." He hummed. "I would not trade you for anything. Nor anyone. I love you, Ya-aa." Their lips connected. He felt her kiss-tingle through every space on his body.

He would never tire of that sensation.

**Never**.

"Good. Now, come on. We should not lay out on the beach, like this." Words made of jest, emerged. He flushed, remembering where they were.

"Right…" He made to stand. Tugged on his breeches—and smallclothes. Settled at her side, upon the beach-sands. Until the sun began to set—and the mist cleared away.

And when he saw their twins running out along the sands—playing—he imagined himself. And Yara. Remembered the magic—of being a youth with all the possibilities of a lifetime, sprawled out ahead—and he would not trade this—for the **world**.


End file.
